


Committed

by Melodious329



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melodious329/pseuds/Melodious329
Summary: This is a prompt from the kink_meme in which the three Musketeers meet in a mental institution.  Athos suffers from depression and alcoholism.  Aramis has PTSD and sex addiction.  Porthos has struggled with anger management and childhood trauma.  Somehow, together they find a way to trust each other.  But Richelieu is still working against them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is finished and I'm just editing it. But thought posting a little introduction, would spur me to work faster. 
> 
> Full Prompt:  
> "All of the Musketeers suffer some form of PTSD form various traumas in their lives. Athos has been diagnosed with severe Depression (suicidal with destructive tendencies), he was institutionalized by Court order after being found insane at his Trial for the attempted murder of his wife and the murder of his younger brother (who Athos doggedly blames his wife for).  
> Porthos has had a hard and brutal life growing up on the mean streets, he also has major rage issues and a bad gambling addiction. Being big, frighteningly strong and dangerous, not to mention having been arrested and convicted numerous times for thievery, assault (never against innocents or good people) and finally after being involved in the deaths of three known and violent gang-members, the Law was going to just dump him in jail and throw away the key. But Treville literally swooped in, pulling some strings and has Porthos put not only in his care, but in his employment. Treville can see for all his problems Porthos is a truly decent person and far smarter then any give him credit for, he's also protective and surprisingly gentle when they is need and completely loyal.  
> Aramis has been diagnosed with Nymphomania, along with having abandonment issues, he was also discharged from the Army years back, the only survivor out of 20 from an ambush. Treville came across him at a conference at a different hospital and had him immediately transferred to his care when it became clear that members of that staff and the orderlies were regularly taking full advantage of the pretty nympho.  
> Unfortunately the same thing starts to happen at his own hospital, which infuriated Treville since it was usually orderlies from Dr. Richelieu's staff and section (the Red Guards) sneaking onto his ward and into Aramis' room.  
> He is rather pleased however when Porthos quickly puts these 'visits' to a firm and painful end after he officially becomes one of the orderlies on Trevilles' ward. Needless to say Treville soon discovers that these three particular misfits are good for one another, they just click. Separate they are a mess, ticking time-bombs, but together they make an amazing and 'sane' person. "

When Athos woke that morning, he had no idea the turn his life would take. What he does know is that the hangover is as terrible as expected, and he groans in misery almost as soon as he’s gained consciousness. The upside of the hammering in his skull, however, is that his hands go to cradle his skull rather than extend out into the cold side of his bed expecting to feel the warm body of his wife. There is no room for memories when his head contains this much pain.

Rolling into the fetal position, he pries open his eyes to see his dingy bedsit. It’s so small that it’s only a few stumbling steps into a frigid shower. After that, he’s human enough to pull on only slightly rumpled clothes for work. It’s a good thing he’s the boss. He moved out of his family’s estate months ago, but he’s still the CEO of his father’s company, has been in charge of the business since his father’s early death. He used to take pride in it, before Thomas’ death, before his wife’s...mistrial. Now he leaves by lunchtime and hunkers down at a bar nearby.

It’s not unusual behavior for him, not anymore. But today is Thomas’s birthday so perhaps he gets carried away. He can’t quite remember how he ends up in the hospital for alcohol poisoning. But he learns later that he apparently threatened his own life which is how he gets a trip upstairs, to the secure mental ward to be involuntarily committed. For his own safety, supposedly.

His personal things were already taken in the ED, but he is given scrubs instead of a hospital gown. After that he’s mostly locked in a plain room and forgotten about.  
**********************************************

Porthos huffs in frustration as he barges into Treville’s office. Normally, Treville’s annoyed face amuses him, but Porthos is too angry today to notice as he throws a file down on the cheap public school style metal desk.

“He’s got another one,” Porthos growls as he jams a finger down on the file.

The other man doesn’t need an explanation of who they’re talking about. Treville is the lead psychiatrist of the hospital’s mental ward and is in constant conflict with the head of the secure ward, Richelieu.

Porthos throws himself down in a chair. He’s worked with Treville at the hospital for two years now, but he’s known the man for much longer. It was Treville who supported him through school to be a nurse. They met when Treville was the lead psychiatrist at the Department of Juvenile Justice. Having grown up on the streets after his homeless mother’s death, Porthos graduated from pick-pocketing to a gang, stealing and intimidation. But Dr. Treville saw something in him, saying he had a ‘strong moral compass’. He gave Porthos a way out of that life.

The situation with Richelieu grates on his sense of justice. The secure ward is supposed to be a temporary solution for those who are a danger to themselves or others, but the other doctor seems to regard it as some sort of asylum to isolate the ‘disturbed’ from society. He refuses those men any kind of rehabilitation.

“What’s this one?” Treville asks without attempting to pick up the file.

“Major depressive episode,” Porthos answers. “And probably alcoholism. Will we wait til he’s kept in solitary for six weeks to do something? Like Rene?”

Porthos grabs another file from Treville’s desk, knowing its contents better than its owner. Opening the front cover, he looks at a familiar photo, dishevelled curls and dark forlorn eyes. The man’s PTSD was deemed a danger to others and his sex addiction a danger to himself.  
**************************************

Aramis pulls on his restraints, tightened since his last escape attempt. “You can’t keep me here! Let me go!”

“I can and I will,” Richelieu responds, entering the small room followed by three guards. “Besides, you get visitors and ‘exercise’,” the thin face creases into a creepy smile. “If you attack the guards to escape again, then I will be forced to put you in actual solitary and keep you continuously drugged.”

Aramis’ breath hitches as the doctor lifts a syringe. He hates being drugged, but he hates being alone more, alone with the memories of his fallen brothers. His chest still heaves with frustration and fear but he doesn’t fight anymore as Richelieu approaches. One long-fingered hand flips up the edge of his hospital gown, uncaring of exposing his nudity. Aramis lifts his eyes to stare at the ceiling as the needle is jabbed into his thigh. He doesn’t watch as the psychiatrist leaves him with the three guards in red scrubs.

The sedative acts quickly and Aramis can feel his muscles relax without his permission. He listens without really caring. These are his days in this place.

“Wish we had a woman in here,” the shorter squat one says.

“A woman would cause too much trouble if we were caught,” the ringleader replies. “Besides what else could you want?” Aramis opens his mouth as a thumb presses against his plush lips. “He’s got a talented mouth, and we keep his face mostly shaved.”

The guard laughs and Aramis’ adam’s apple bobs as he swallows in remembered humiliation of having his neck exposed while being shaved by these men. The third guard suddenly pushes off the wall he’d been leaning against.

“Hurry it up,” he laughs, grabbing one of Aramis’ still restrained wrists to release it. “Turn him over.”

Like a slab of meat, Aramis is released from his bonds, turned onto his stomach, and dragged half off the bed. His gown is bunched underneath his stomach and he can feel the cold air on his backside.

“”He has a great ass and a tight hole,” the ringleader continues. “Tell me you never wanted to do your girl up the ass.”

There’s a hard smack to his asscheek and then two slick fingers slide in. Aramis hates the drugs that weaken him, rendering him only capable of panting and flicking his fingers erratically in response. But he also loves it. He loves the helplessness as he’s speared by the thick cock. He wants to arch his back in pleasure, but he can’t even prevent the way his body is awkwardly shoved up the bed with every thrust.

A hand fists in his curls, another hand on his shoulder for leverage. “Plus he’s got long hair like a chick,” the conversation continues.

“I hate when he’s drugged,” the blonde says nonchalantly.

“He hit a guard this time, trying to escape,” another voice answers. “Can’t take the chance, but hopefully, he’ll learn his lesson.”


	2. Chapter 2

Athos’s dinner comes on a tray slipped through the slot in his door.  He’s just putting the empty tray back when he notices the tremors in his hands.  Staring at them, he backs away until he hits the wall, sliding down the smooth surface to sit on the floor.  He knows what’s happening.  By the morning, he’s a mess of sweat and urine.  The sound of footsteps outside his door, startles him, setting off the pounding of his heart that sounds like some dreaded countdown in his altered state.  But no one disturbs his misery, not even when he screamed obscenities at a hallucination of his wife.  

It takes two days before he makes it to the ensuite bare bathroom to clean himself up.  There’s a showerhead, nearly over the toilet which doesn’t have seat or lid.  But Athos is familiar with cold showers.  It helps clear the last of the hallucinations, but without them, he’s left with nothing but his own thoughts.  Athos’s mind fixates on her as it usually does right before he drowns himself in liquor.  Now there’s no escape.  He spends his days imagines what he wishes he’d said to her at the trial.  He imagines killing her in retribution when he found her over Thomas’ body.  He remembers how much he loved her.  And he wishes he had a drink.  

When his door actually opens a week and a half after he arrived, he doesn’t know what to do.  He’s again sitting against the far wall, running his hands through his untrimmed beard in agitation.  An irritated orderly orders him forward into the hallway.  

“You two are being moved to another unit,” the red clad orderly explains before Athos can remember how to form words.  

Looking around, that’s when he notices a hospital gurney being pushed down the corridor.  He’s given a shove to follow it down the hospital hallway to the elevator.  Only once they’re under way, does he look down at the other patient.  It’s a young man with dark curls forming a halo around his face.  His hospital gown is bunched around lean thighs and he has no sheet or blanket to cover him.  Frowning, Athos has the urge to smooth a curl of hair away from the young man’s forehead.  He looks vulnerable with long dark lashes lying on wan cheeks.  

The elevator dings and Athos looks up to see they’re met at the subsequent floor by a towering nurse in blue scrubs who’s glaring at them all.  Athos tenses up automatically, suspicious after his ordeal.  

“You can go now,” the nurse growls, not even letting the red orderlies get off the elevator.  

The orderlies sneer back and shove the hospital bed out.  Amazingly, the patient doesn’t wake as he’s jostled, body wobbling like custard.  Feeling like a child being handed off to a babysister, Athos follows silently until he’s motioned to go first into a room.  This time the room is more comfortable like a hotel rather than a hospital.  It has green curtains and comforters on the two beds.  Athos looks back, realizes that he’ll have a roommate as the gurney is also pushed into the room.  

“Sorry about all tha’,” the nurse says as he enters the room last.  He extends his hand in greeting.  “Name’s Porthos.”

They shake hands like they’re not in patient and nurse in a hospital and Athos nods in acknowledgment.  “Athos, please.”

Porthos nodes instead of questioning the use of a name that’s certainly not in his medical file.  “Alright, then.”  Next he hands Athos what looks like a laundry bag.  “Here’s your clothes, and some toiletries and things.”

Athos takes the bag and moves to the further bed, carefully sitting himself down.  

“You aren’t locked in here,” Porthos continues.  “Feel free to take a shower and use the electric razor,” he points to an open door that must be the bathroom.  “You can come join everyone and watch tv or stay here and take a nap, your choice.  Maybe tomorrow you can join group.”

The big man smiles, an expression that seems more natural on his face.  Then Porthos turns to the unconscious patient.  He pulls back the comforter on the second bed and then showcases his strength by simply picking up the unconscious man like a damsel and maneuvering him under the bedclothes.  Lastly, a big hand gently brushes an errant curl away before he moves toward the door.  

It’s that unexpectedly gentle move of comfort more than anything that lets Athos relax minutely.  “When will he wake?” he asks, nodding at his new roommate.  

Porthos sighs.  “I’m not sure.  It depends on how much he was given.”

Athos frowns, thinking that medications should really be recorded.  As he is left alone, he finds himself at a loss, simply staring at the man who lies there completely still like Sleeping Beauty.  The man is striking, Athos can’t deny, though he hasn’t been with a man since college.  Afraid of the direction of his thoughts, he pointedly looks away to the ceiling and then stands.  He showers and changes out of scrubs, deciding to just let his beard grow ever more unruly.  He takes the opportunity to look out of the window behind the headboards for a while.  Now that he could actually go and interact with other people, he finds the idea too daunting.  He’s too tired.  He doesn’t want to.  He only obsessively thinks of his ex-wife.  

Porthos checks on him about every thirty minutes and brings him lunch when it’s clear he won’t go to the cafeteria.  Athos wonders over the man who looks more suited to be a bouncer than a nurse and acts like a friend rather than a jailer.  He’s back to sitting on his bed, pondering when a sudden movement on the other bed startles Athos into jumping.  It’s a shock when the unconscious man finally shifts in his sleep.  Though, it takes another thirty minutes for the handsome man to come around, first shifting and shivering, his eyes rolling beneath eyelids.  Understandably, the man appears confused when he finally blinks open his eyes to frown at the ceiling.  After a long moment, his head rolls on the pillow and then finally Athos gets his first view of soulful dark eyes.  Inexplicably, the man smiles at him, eyes lighting up in happiness.  

“I’ve been moved,” he murmurs in wonder, before shooting up with a groan.  “New roommate?” he asks, turning back to Athos.  He doesn’t seem at all upset by waking up in a completely different place.

“Yes,” Athos finally finds his voice.  “Athos.”

“Nice,” the man replies, seemingly apropos of nothing.  “I’m Aramis.”

Athos doesn’t have time to reply as the man suddenly spots his own laundry bag at the end of his bed.  “My own clothes!” he crows as he pulls it on his lap.  “My jeans!”

Athos’ lips twitch, amused at the man’s excitement over such simple things that he once took for granted.  The feeling dies when Aramis jumps up and the back of his gown flies open revealing bruised buttocks.  Athos stares unrepentantly as the view is quickly covered with briefs and jeans.  The show continues when the gown is ripped off and carelessly dropped, revealing a slender toned torso dusted with dark hair.  That view is then only partially covered with a lowcut v-neck black tee.  With the bruises covered, Athos can again simply appreciate the man’s looks in tight jeans.  Especially when the man bends over to search his bag for something else.  

“Guess we’re not allowed necklaces yet,” Aramis offers sheepishly, standing up.  “Were you, uh, in the upstairs ward too?”

“Yes, we were transferred this morning,” he answers.  

“Ah,” Aramis nods, looking away, presumably embarrassed at the obvious fact that only one of them was drugged unconscious at the time.  He runs a hand through his wild curls in what seems a nervous gesture.  

“You want me to bring your tray back?” the man suddenly asks with a softer smile.  

“Thank you,” Athos responds sincerely, grateful that the man doesn’t question him.  

***********************************************

Porthos has been surreptitiously watching the door of their new occupants all day so he straightens immediately when it opens and Rene exits.  He’s stared at the man’s picture for so long that it’s strange to see the man moving and interacting, and wearing regular, if revealing, clothes.  Rene is smiling, his face expressive as he greets everyone he comes across.  He’s holding Athos’ food tray which shows he’s a nice and helpful guy.  

Stepping forward, Porthos speaks to him for the first time.  “Let me take that tray for you.”

The smile that’s directed at him is blinding.  To say he’s surprised by the man’s happy demeanor is an understatement, but he can’t be too bothered when it makes the man look even more gorgeous.  

“Hey, are you hungry?  You missed lunch, but I can get you something,” Porthos offers.  

“Actually, that’d be great,” Rene answers him, unexpectedly sincere.  

“Come with me,” Porthos leads him into the kitchen, trying not to think about how many meals Rene might have missed being drugged. He places the tray with the others and grabs a loaf of bread.  “They’ve already taken the leftovers but is a turkey sandwich, okay?”

Rene leans one hip against a gleaming metal table and crosses his arms.  “That’s great.  It’s been awhile since someone made me a sandwich.”  One hand is pulling at one errant curl now.  

Porthos smiles at the tell.  He knows Rene was in the military since he was a seventeen year old boy.  He’s used to cafeteria food, probably, having gone seemingly from one institution to another.

“Sometimes sandwiches are all I’ll eat for weeks,” Porthos laughs at himself.  

Rene chuckles too.  “Not a big cook?”

“Not exactly.  Rene…”

“Aramis,” the man interrupts with suddenly narrowed eyes.  “Sorry.  Call me Aramis.”

“Ok, Aramis,” Porthos replies easily.  The tension melts off of the man, relieved that there won’t be some kind of power play over the name.  He slides over the sandwich on a napkin.  “Enjoy.”

Aramis looks intently at the sandwich, expression unreadable before he picks up half.  Soft eyes glance up at him through the dark fan of lashes before the sandwich is devoured in bites.  Mere moments later, he’s wiping his mouth on the napkin and balling it up.  

“Wow, you need another?” Porthos laughs lightly.  

When Aramis shakes his head no, Porthos ushers him back to the rec room.  He figures it’s probably not a good idea to be alone with Rene, Aramis so soon considering.  

“How’s your roommate, Athos?” Porthos asks as they walk back.  He knows most aren’t happy to have roommates in the institution, and Athos is certainly very different than Aramis.  

To his surprise, though, Aramis smiles again, this time with mischievousness.  “I like him.”

Porthos hesitates, looking for a hidden meaning, but then he smiles, trusts.  “You gonna convince him to come out?”

“Oh, I intend to,” Aramis smiles wider, a little spring in his step.  

*********************

Aramis plays a game of chess with an older man who’s actually a college professor when he’s not locked up here.  And then he moves to the couch to watch an old episode of Seinfeld with a middle-aged woman who pats his thigh.  Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices that the nurse, Porthos, seems to check on him a lot.  He doesn’t mind.  The man is nice and doesn’t treat them like patients.  Plus, he’s easy on the eyes.  Aramis is pretty sure he caught Porthos staring at his ass in these jeans, but he can control himself, no matter what anyone says.  He’s not gonna climb the guy in the rec room.  Unless Porthos is into that…

At dinnertime, he asks the hot nurse if he can take two trays and eat in his room with Athos.  Porthos only looks a little suspicious before letting him go with a clap on the back.  The staff is undoubtedly worried he’ll seduce his poor, innocent roommate.  But he wouldn’t do anything to hurt Athos.  

He kicks open their bedroom door to see Athos has found a book to read.  Green, piercing eyes look up at his approach, watching with a neutral expression and the book is only set aside as the tray is handed over.  Aramis isn’t intimidated by the man’s cool reception, though.

Settling against the headboard with his own tray, there’s silence for a moment while they each start to eat.  “So where’d you get the book?” he asks.  

“They’re behind the desk,” Athos answers simply.  “You can get three at a time,” he gestures to two other books on the table between their two beds.  

Aramis swallows another bite before continuing, “Did they have a Bible?”

He’s expecting the way that Athos pauses at the question.  Most people do nowadays.  “They did,” is the serious answer.  

Aramis drops his spoon and takes a drink from his water bottle.  He’s suddenly feeling a bit nauseous, and hot.  But he’s trying to bond with what seems a very lonely man.  “You know a Bible saved my life once,” he starts.  It’s his go to anecdote when someone feels uncomfortable with his faith.  It’s just a humorous tale about the time during his military service that he distracted a gunman by throwing the book at him.  Athos doesn’t seem amused.  He might think that Athos isn’t even listening but for the eye rolls and minute shakes of his head.

The telling seems to tire him out, though.  Probably because he usually has a quite early bedtime, thanks to the sedative he was given at night to keep him from ill-conceived escape attempts.  He wonders if he’ll be given any medications in this ward.  Swallowing heavily, he decides he’s done with dinner and takes their trays back out, handing them to a nurse named Malcolm when he doesn’t see Porthos.  Then he takes a glorious shower, and climbs back into bed.  

“Do you mind if I continue reading?” Athos asks politely when he’s finished his ablutions.  

“Not at all,” Aramis answer easily as he turns on his side away from the light.  He’s so tired that it doesn’t bother him at all.  

He wakes up to darkness and a pool of his own sweat.  A tide of nausea rises up his throat as he slowly sits up, and his hands tremble as he attempts to wipe his brow.  He’s staring dumbly at his hand when the door opens and a man shines a penlight at him.  Aramis covers his eyes, but when he can see, it’s not surprising that it’s one of the guards from upstairs and another by the door.  He’s used to midnight visits, but he looks over at his sleeping roommate.  Athos stirs as the guard starts whispering.

“Rene, come on,” the guard hisses.  

Aramis stands automatically, but paused when Athos’ eyes open and look up at him.  “What?” Athos questions sleepily.  

“Now,” the guard orders.  “Let’s go get some ‘exercise’,” he laughs.  

“My roommate, you idiots,” Aramis snaps back at them before leaning down to Athos.  “Hey, it’s fine.  I’ll be back in a minute.”

He’s surprised when Athos grips his wrist to prevent him from leaving.  “Don’t go.”

Aramis smiles, “I’m not sneaking out.  They’re from upstairs.”

But he’s interrupted by the guard, “Come on if you two don’t want to go back to the secure ward.”

Sighing, Aramis pulls away from the long-fingered hand still holding onto his wrist.  “I’ll be right back.  Really, it’s fine.”

Quietly, he leaves the room, following the intruders into a supply closet, except for one man who stays outside, presumably keeping a lookout.  He goes easily to his knees when a hand pushes at him.  

“C’mon, nympho,” the man mocks him while pulling down the scrub pants.  “You certainly know what to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person for taking this long. And this is only a small update, but I wanted to post whatever I could get done tonight. Sorry for not planning ahead better.

Athos throws the sheets back, sitting up as the door closes again.  He pushes the hair off his forehead as he corrals his sleepy brain into figuring out what just happened.  Why would orderlies need a patient in the middle of the night?  It certainly didn’t sound like it was an official visit.  Possibilities flood his mind from escape to contraband.  For a moment, his pulse quickens at the idea that he could get alcohol smuggled in here, but he quashes that thought forcefully.

His next thought is to mind his own business.  He doesn’t want to get involved in anyone else’s problems.  He doesn’t care about his own problems, doesn’t want therapy.  He doesn’t have a reason to want to get better.  He certainly doesn’t want to care about this man with who knows what problems.  

Thoroughly awake, he gets up and goes into the bathroom to splash his face with water.  He comes back just in time to see Aramis slip back into the room as well.  The light from the window falls across the handsome face and Athos realizes the skin is slick with sweat.

“Are you alright?” he asks, despite himself.  

“Perfectly fine,” Aramis answers quickly, too quickly.  

Stiffening, Athos accepts the brush off and turns away.  The rejection is a reminder that they’re not friends.  Men keep their own secrets, particularly in this place, and caring isn’t going to get him anywhere.  So he gets back on his bed, sitting against the headboard and ignoring the other man’s sigh.  But then Aramis is sitting on the side of his bed and, surprisingly, laying a hand on his bare ankle.  

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says contritely.  “None of us are ‘perfectly fine’ here.”

Athos’ demeanor softens a bit.  Then he notices the tremble in the other man’s thin frame.  “You really do look sick.  Did they give you something?”

The other man pulls back in shock.  “No, I'm not sneaking drugs…”

Athos remembers that Aramis didn’t eat much dinner.  “Is it alcohol?  I mean, do you need some?”

“No, I…” then the handsome face clears in understanding.  “It’s not alcohol withdrawal.  Is that...when you were upstairs?”

Athos considers denying it, but there is no point.  He’s given it away.  “Yes, when I was first admitted.”

“Did they give you something for it?” Aramis asks, eyes dark and concerned.  

“No, I was left entirely alone,” Athos answers, almost glad to have been spared their interventions.  

“Those bastards,” Aramis growls and Athos raises his eyebrows at the other man’s anger on his behalf.  “I should have smacked them tonight for you.”

“What were they doing down here then?” he can’t help but ask.  

But his question goes unanswered as Aramis leans forward, trembling increasing to shaking.  He acts on instinct on seeing another person in pain.  

“Here, lie down,” he instructs as he rolls the man who stays curled up in pain.  Aramis’ t-shirt is sweat stained  “Let me go find someone.”

“No!” Aramis spasms, reaching for Athos even as his face crumples.  “Don’t leave me like this.  Not like…”  He breaks off with a gasp as he spasms again.  

“Okay,” Athos soothes.  “I’ll stay with you.”

Aramis is still holding his wrist and taking up most of his bed so Athos debates exactly what to do now.  Eventually, he maneuvers to lie on his side so that they’re face to face.  The beds are singles so they barely fit.  He hears the sick man swallowing convulsively and twists so he can pull the comforter over them.

“I’m okay,” Aramis assures him, snuggling into the warmth.  “Just talk to me, please.”

There’s only one thing that Athos can think to talk about.  “What did those orderlies want?”

The ghost of a smile warms Aramis’  sweaty face, though he keeps his head bowed.  “Like a dog with a bone…” he murmurs.  “Sex, they wanted sex.”

Athos’ whole body goes rigid, but Aramis huffs a laugh and pushes him so his body rocks.  “Don’t be such a prude,” the other man teases him.  “It’s not a big deal.”

“But they work here,,” Athos continues.  “And they threatened us.”

A bony hand comes up to grip his loose tshirt.  “We’re not going back upstairs,” the sick man says, forcefully.  “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a bit of fun.” Aramis’ voice trails off into an exhausted sigh.  

That last denial has Athos’ hackles up.  It sounds more damning than anything, but he lets it go.  The silence grows as Aramis’ body becomes limp with sleep, his body curving til his forehead rests on Athos’ collarbone.  Athos drifts, dozing on and off until sunlight replaces the artificial light coming through the window.  

***************************

Porthos is early for his shift the next morning.  The patients are supposed to be checked every thirty minutes throughout the night so everything should be fine.  But Porthos has always had a hard time trusting others to take care of things when he’s not there.  And his first concern is their newest intakes.  He sees through the door’s window that Aramis’ bed is mussed but empty.  He’s not too concerned, though, until he looks at the other bed.  The two men are both on Athos’ bed, curled into each other like puppies with their hair a mess over the pillow.  Concerned, Porthos’ blood pressure sky-rockets and he can only hope they have their clothes on.  

As soon as he opens the door, Athos head pops up from their nest.  “Porthos, thank god!  Aramis is sick,” the man cries, the most words anyone on staff has heard from the posh man.  

Now worried for a different reason, Porthos rushes to kneel next to the bed where Aramis lies, pulling the man towards himself, and incidentally away from Athos as his hand goes to the sweaty forehead.  

“He’s not feverish,” Athos states.  “I thought alcohol withdrawal but…”

“He’s been hospitalized for weeks,” he refutes the idea, shifting his other hand underneath to create the man's neck.  Then he curses under his breath.  “It must be the sedatives he was given.”

Athos looks utterly unimpressed with that theory  “Shouldn’t you be keeping track of that?” he asks drily.

Porthos grimaces in disgust.  “Rules seem to be different upstairs.”

“I’m fine,” Aramis interjects, blinking open amused eyes and shifting further into Porthos’ arms.  “I already feel better than last night.”

Porthos curses mentally as he sheepishly takes his hands away, unaware of how he was embracing the sick man.  He knew he should have stayed last night.  

“I just want a shower,” Aramis continues, sitting up slowly.  

Porthos is still on his knees as both men watch the sick man go into the bathroom.  “Can you stay here a minute?  I’m gonna get a doctor to evaluate him,” Porthos asks.

“Of course.  Good idea,” Athos answers.  

But Porthos hesitates before standing.  He wouldn’t normally entrust any responsibility to a patient but it's somehow easy to rely on Athos. The man comes across as very reasonable.  

When he returns, Aramis is dressed with wet hair.  He smiles flirtatiously as the doctor invites him to sit on the bed.  

“You can call me Ninon,” the doctor introduces herself as she begins to take his vital signs.  “You seem in good shape right now,” she says while still listening to his chest, “but we need to keep a close eye on you that no serious side effects develop.”  She turns insistent eyes on Porthos.  

“Can I go about my day then?” Aramis asks, somehow charming and infuriating at the same time.  “I’m really looking forward to the art therapy.”

Porthos snorts and crosses his arms.  Ninon stands up.  “You can, just take it easy.”

Aramis smiles and stands himself.  “Wanna go see the cafeteria?” he turns to his misanthropic roommate.

Porthos watches curious as Athos considers it and eventually follows the other man to the door, though he grabs his book like a security blanket.  The men seem to have quickly forged a friendship though they both seem to be fundamentally loners.  

Before walking out the door, Aramis claps a hand on Porthos’ broad shoulder, saying “Thank you.” It's surprisingly intimate and sincere for a man who seems to cultivate the aura of a playboy. 

Porthos follows them into the cafeteria, keeping an eye on the two men even as he checks in with other patients.  Aramis greets those he met yesterday, but he and Athos are mostly quiet when together.  

He follows the curly-haired man to the painting class.  Apparently, Aramis wasn’t kidding about attending.  He even seems to enjoy the class and creates a passable fruit-like painting, though he also flirts with the younger woman next to him.  Emilie is quiet, not shy so much as reserved, but she giggles at the handsome man's stories, pleased with the attention.  

Athos meanwhile has commandeered the armchair on the outskirts of the room as his own.  After the class, Aramis makes his way over, flopping down in the nearby couch.  But then, he motions Porthos over.  

“Come on, sit down,” the flirtatious man invites, patting the seat next to him.  “If you’re going to follow me about, I should know something about you.”

“I'm not following you, I'm doing my job,” Porthos defends though the patient only smiles knowingly back. Still, Porthos decides to humor him.  Treville is always telling him how his own story can be an inspiration to others who are struggling.

“Alright,” Porthos agrees, trying to be casual.  “I’m lucky to be here, actually.  You’ll meet Dr. Treville later in group, but he changed my life.”

“Really?” Aramis says. The man has a way of seeing genuinely interested in everyone he meets, of making every person feel like the center of his universe if only for that moment.  “How’d you meet?”

“In his professional capacity,” Porthos says, drawing it out.  “But back then he was with the DJJ.”

“You were…” Aramis prompts.  

“Arrested?” Porthos smiles to show he’s not offended.  “Yes, but not convicted.  I ran with a gang, lived on the streets,” he shrugs.  

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says sincerely, his hand resting on Porthos’ forearm. 

“Treville showed me that the past didn't have to define me, that I could make a new start.” 

Athos snorts in derision at the cliched turn of phrase.

“Where were your parents?” the questions continue.

“Dad was never in the picture. Mom tried to raise me but she passed when I was young.”

Aramis squeezes his arm again, cow eyes liquid with sympathy.  

Porthos nudges Aramis’ side, prompting him, “C’mon, how ‘bout you?”

But he shakes those curls in the negative.  “I grew up at a nice place in the country.  We raised horses,” a soft smiles tilts his full lips.  Then he looks down again at his hands.  “I was in the military.  I’m just like all other soldiers.  Nothing special about me.” 

Athos snorts again, this time in humor and Aramis smile widens. “Well, something is special,” he teases.

Porthos can’t smile because he knows that is such a small part of Aramis’ story that it is practically a lie.  But he won't challenge it yet.  Neither of these men trust him yet.

Athos is staring at the carpet when Aramis reaches over to prod him.  “This is not a Lifetime movie,” he intones, seriously.  “My family situation has nothing to do with this.”

“We're trying to get to know you, you old codger,” Aramis teases the man. 

“I don't see what my childhood had to do with anything.”

“Then tell us why you’re here,” Aramis says, still teasing.  

But the change it engenders in the other man is abrupt and all-encompassing.  Suddenly, Athos is standing and moving away.  But Aramis stands too, unwilling to let the man go.  

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says, that sincerity shining out of him again.  “You don’t have to tell me.  Ever.”

Porthos waits a moment, watching how Athos actually listens instead of running away.  He hates to interrupt, but he places a hand between Aramis's shoulderblades.  “Hey, it’s time for group.”   

The two are definitely unsettled and Porthos frowns as he watches them walk away from him at the door to the group therapy room.  They’re late so the two men have to take seats on the opposite sides of the circle.  Porthos himself has his usual chair just to the left of the door.  Group is always hard for him to sit through.  It’s agonizing to hear the pain of a roomful of people from a young woman who was abused by her mother to an older professor who felt so isolated that he attempted suicide.  And amongst the rest, his eyes return to his two self-imposed charges.  Athos looks stoic as always while Aramis’ misery is reflected in those beautiful eyes.  Porthos physically shakes himself.  He can’t let himself think that about the man.  

Treville has come around the circle now to Athos.  “Would you like to share?”

“No,” the man replies simply.  

Porthos’ cheeks tighten in suppressed amusement, recognizing Treville’s purse-mouthed expression.  “I think it would help for you to talk about it.”

Athos is seemingly unreachable.  “I don’t want to talk about it.  I wish I could forget it.”

“And how is that working out for you?” Treville snarks unexpectedly.  “Okay, maybe tomorrow.  Let’s move on.”

Aranis is no more receptive.  He looks ready to cry at the story of the woman just before him but is flippant when it comes to his own life.  “I don’t know what to say.  Apparently a high sex drive is an illness.”

There are a few laughs in the room.  “Do you think that some of your liaisons were reckless?” Treville prompts.  

Aramis chuckles.  “I’ve always been a bit reckless.  Some would say just being in the military is reckless.  My liaisons have always been a source of amusement for my team.”

“Why do you think you have reckless sexual relationships?” 

“For the same reason, I enjoyed being in the military.  I enjoy the risk,” Aramis spreads his hands like this is obvious and simple.  

Porthos can tell Treville is getting annoyed, probably wrongly having assumed that Aramis would be the easier nut to crack.  Much like Porthos’ initial surprise to the man’s unaffected demeanor.  

“Alright, let’s move on,” Treville acknowledges not pushing harder today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a disclaimer that I am not an expert on mental health or mental institutions. This is fiction and purely fantasy.

After the group session, Athos flees the therapy room.  He flees to the relative safety of their bedroom, but he knows he can’t really escape this hell.  At any time, doctors and nurses and orderlies can just intrude on this small sanctuary to torture him some more.  Athos decides to slowly slide down to sit on the floor against the far wall, hidden by the beds.  

The sound of the door opening just proves his point, but then it is the lean figure of his roommate that enters his line of sight.  Aramis is quiet as he simply sits down, shoulder to shoulder.  Still, the man doesn’t speak, doesn’t seem to even be gearing up to do so, to speak the platitudes that Athos has heard a million times from people who didn’t know what else to say.   

But after several long moments of silence, he notices that Aramis is fidgeting with his hands, looking down at them as if he’s expecting to see something there, something that he’s lost.  “What is it?” he asks against his better judgment.  

“I want my rosary,” Aramis answers simply, ending with a sigh.  

“I want a drink,” Athos counters.  

Aramis chuckles instead of chastises him and then leans his curly head on the other man’s shoulder.  When the affection is not rebuffed, he takes a deep breath of contentment.  

Athos is surprised by the affection, but surprisingly, not discomfited by the warm weight against his side.  The ease of it reminds him of his brother, though they had grown apart in later years. Athos was so busy taking over for their father.  And then he was busy with  _ her _ . 

Thinking of how he failed his brother barely scratches the surface of his guilt, but he does feel protective of this younger man, has since he saw the man unconscious and vulnerable in the elevator.  There's a shadow of movement in the window of their door that he knows is Porthos checking in them.  Normally, Athos’ instinct is to keep his problems to himself, solve his problems without help, but Porthos feels like a friend more than a jailer.  And this place is a problem he can't solve by himself.

He gets his chance when Porthos pops in to inform them it's dinnertime.  Aramis moves away from their embrace but turns his upper body to look at him with tired brown eyes.

“Did you want me to just bring it here?” Aramis asks. 

Athos feels a rush of affection that the man's first thought is for his comfort.  “That’d be great,” he answers.  

He sees how Porthos’ dark eyes follow Aramis leaving and he knows that Porthos cares more than just professionally for the striking man.  So he stops the nurse from following out of the room.  

“Porthos, I need to talk.”

Unsurprisingly, Porthos is hesitant, eyes following Aramis’ retreating back.  “Please,” Athos adds.  

Immediately, Porthos turns back, all of that concern now directed at him.  “What is it?”

“Something else happened last night,” Athos confesses, choosing to trust this man.  “Orderlies came to get Aramis some time after midnight.”

“They what?” Porthos spits out, clearly shocked.  

“Aramis said they were from upstairs.  He said they wanted sex,” he says, keeping his tone flat.  

Porthos rubs his hand across his mouth and then turns away, hands on hips.  “I can’t believe they have the balls to come down here!”

“Is this another example of how rules are different there?” Athos asks, drily.  “Are they really risking their jobs to rape a patient?”

“You have no idea,” Porthos mumbles before turning back around.  “I don’t think Aramis sees it like that.”

Athos opens his mouth to reply but they’re interrupted by the door opening as his roommate returns.  The man doesn’t seem to have heard their conversation as Aramis smiles easily as always and hands over one tray.  Settling on one bed, Aramis remarks, “I feel weird eating in front of you, but I hope you won’t leave,” he looks coyly at Porthos through half-closed eyes.  “Especially since you’ll just lurk nearby anyway.”

Porthos laughs.  “What they don’t tell you in the job description.  I’ll stay til I have to check on some other patients.”  He sits when Aramis pats the bed.  

Aramis stabs at his meal and says, “You’re probably looking forward to better company than this after you leave here.”

“Not really,” Porthos explains.  “I don’t really get out much.”

“Married to your work?” Aramis teases.  “No one to cook for you?”

Porthos’ shy look is endearing.  “No.  No time for that either.  I volunteer in the neighborhood I grew up in whenever I get the chance.”

Athos doesn’t know what to say, but Aramis does.  Looking over at Porthos with those doe eyes, he says earnestly, “You’re a good man, Porthos.”

But before the moment gets too heavy, the curly-haired man turns back to his food and throws out, “So you live in the city then?”

Porthos tells them about his apartment woes and some of his neighbors before he stands and takes their trays.  “Alright, I have to go.  I’ll see you two in the morning.”

The nurse gives Athos a dark significant look that lets him know their earlier conversation hasn't been forgotten.  Athos himself prepares for another mostly sleepless night though he gets into his bed and pretends.  

*****************************************

Aramis lies awake in his bed with one hand bent behind his head, his other hand resting on his bare chest as he waits for the signal.  He doesn’t want them to wake Athos again.  He saw the dark circles under the older man’s eyes today.  

Eventually, there is a flash of light through the door’s window and he’s up and out of the room without his roommate stirring.  He follows the two guards into what appears to be a therapy room.  They’re laughing and joking with each other, when one turns to him and leers.  

“Come on, nympho,” the older man with thinning hair taunts him.  “Take your clothes off.”

Aramis huffs, annoyed by their attitude.  Stepping up to the obnoxious guard, he grabs at the ties at the waist of the scrub pants so he can slip his hand inside.  The guard’s dick is only half-hard as he wraps his entire palm around it, thumb rubbing against the sensitive head.  

“Seems like you’re the one not ready,” Aramis jokes.  

He’s not surprised that the guard isn’t in a joking mood and goes easily as he’s pushed away.  Turning away, he pushes down his pajama pants, but another shove unbalances him so he practically falls on top of a nearby armchair.  

“Jesus, assholes,” Aramis gripes as he shakes them off and bends over the arm of the chair.  “Get on with it.”

“Ooh, the bitch barks,” they laugh.  

Ignoring them, he concentrates as one slick finger pushes in, spreading the lubricant as it twists inside him.  “Tight.  You’re not fucking your new roommate?”

He wishes they’d shut up, but it’s easier to ignore the assholes when he feels the blunt pressure at his entrance.  The first thrust punches the air from his lungs and his thoughts from his head.  It burns, the friction too much, but Aramis lifts himself on his hands so he can roll his hips back, fluidly fucking himself. Physical sensations drown out the demons in his head, the lust like a wave that Aramis allows to pull him under as he reaches between his legs.  His dick is already thick in his hand as he strokes, high on sensation.  

“Look at this nympho,” the guard says breathlessly.  

“What the fuck are you doing?!”  

Caught in the haze of lust, it takes Aramis a long moment to work out that the voice is a new arrival.  He only looks up after the man pulls out roughly.  When he does, he sees Porthos throw the first punch.  Then it’s a melee.  Aramis throws himself in immediately, not wanting Porthos to get hurt, though the big man is certainly holding his own.  

Finally, he manages to use his forearm to lever the two apart.  “What the fuck?” yells one of the guards, blood running down his face.  “I’ll report you!”

Porthos lurches forward again, but Aramis pulls him back.  So the nurse resorts to shouting himself.  “Then I’ll fucking report  _ you _ !  You better not be back on this floor again!”

The two guards scowl but take the threat seriously, scurrying out the door.  As soon as they’ve gone, Aramis steps away from Porthos, expecting that anger to turn on him.  “I know what you’re going to say,” he cries preemptively, throwing his hands up.  “It was reckless!  I”m an idiot.  I’m going to be thrown out of here and then…”

His rant is cut off as Porthos embraces him, uncaring of his nudity.  “Are you alright?” he’s asked.

Aramis is still too confused to answer when Athos bursts into the room.  “Aramis!  Are you alright?” the man unknowingly repeats the same question.  

Now his confusion turns to irritation.  “I’m fine,” he states, pulling away while his eyes follow Athos as the man retrieves his pajamas.  He snatches them back, feeling embarrassed in front of his friends.  “Let’s just go back to bed,” he tries smiling as he puts his pants back on, but it feels awkward on his face.  “I don’t know why either of you care so much about my sex life.”

He marches back into their room, not daring to look back.  There’s nothing else to do besides climb back into his bed, to act normal.  But he can see the other two men hesitate so he turns away on his pillow in annoyance.  Slowly, Athos gets into bed and Porthos closes the door behind them.  

********************************

Porthos finds the orderly in charge of last night’s rounds and discovers that Richelieu’s men simply convinced him that it was fine if one patient left his room in the middle of the night, that they weren’t doing anything wrong.  Angry at the incompetence, he sends the man home and takes over the checks himself for the rest of the night.  But he’s waiting in front of Treville’s office when the doctor finally arrives.  

Treville manages to ignore his hulking presence and brushes past him to open the office door, setting down his satchel on the desk.  Porthos can barely wait that long as he slams the door behind them and then slams his hands down on the desk. 

“Richelieu’s fucking orderlies were down here last night!  They were having sex with Aramis!”

“Are they still alive?” Treville asks lightly, but Porthos knows that his history makes it a serious question.  

“Yes, Aramis stopped it from going too far,” Porthos answers with a gusty sigh.  “I  _ wanted _ to fucking kill him.”

Treville flops down into the chair.  “You know that your reaction has made it harder to discipline those orderlies.  You’ve muddied the waters with violence.”

“I know,” Porthos growls.  His temper has been a big problem that Treville has really helped him with.  But he also knows that it was Aramis as the victim that really set him off.  

“You seem to have developed quite the rapport with him,” Treville continues as if reading his mind.  “And with Athos.”

Treville lets the words hang out in the air between them and Porthos isn’t sure what his reaction should be.  Are the words censure, support, or just fact?  

“Athos just refuses to talk.  But Aramis is in total denial about his past,” Porthos relates their conversations from the day previous.  

“I’m not sure either of them will open up in group.  Athos only trusts the two of you, and Aramis may need to be pressed a bit harder.  And he’ll need someone to trust if I do that to him,” Treville stares hard at him. 

“You think they trust me that much?” Porthos asks, his forehead wrinkling with a frown.  

“I think that you three trust each other,” Treville states deliberately.  “I will rearrange the schedule so that you’ll have time instead of doing the rounds.  We’ll start today.”

Porthos slumps in the chair and leans his head back.  He’s tired after not sleeping all night and today is not going to be easy either.  He misses breakfast, grabbing something in the kitchen after the patients are gone.  But he makes it to the art therapy session in the morning, smiling at Aramis who is animated as ever, if perhaps a bit manic.  

***************************

Aramis chatters nervously to the woman at the easel next to him.  Her name is Emilie and she’s young but with old eyes and strong opinions.  She’s just a little lost right now and clearly not used to the attention.  He wants to make her smile because she looks like she doesn’t do it enough.  He registers Porthos’ arrival, grateful that the man acknowledges him.  He’s glad that he hasn’t fucked it up yet, hasn’t been abandoned.  

He’s interrupted in a story by a woman coming late and sitting on his other side.  This woman is more traditionally beautiful.  Marguerite is blonde and slender with pale eyes, but she seems washed out and sallow.  He greets her warmly and tries to divide his attention equally for the rest of class, but he becomes a bit annoyed when she constantly interrupts Emilie.  Marguerite seems to be accustomed to having male attention.  

He’s only too happy when the class is over and he can finally leave.  There’s just enough time to run to the bathroom before the next activity.  He ducks into the common bathroom without looking over at Porthos and Athos.  He still feels a bit awkward around the other men.  Having just been discharged from the military, he doesn’t have any civilian friends when he was suddenly committed here.  But even if last night hasn’t driven the other two men away, it won’t last forever.  No one keeps in contact with people they met in a mental institution.

He’s approaching the sink when he notices another man enter the restroom.  But instead of heading to the urinals, the man steps up close to him, herding him over over to the wall as Aramis takes a step back and looks up.  The man is slightly shorter than himself but stouter.  Aramis isn’t easily intimidated, but he doesn’t want to make trouble at this point.  

The man doesn’t look into his eyes but at his lower face, his lips.  “I heard what you said in group, that you like sex.  Thought we could help each other,” he says, licking his lips and reaching out a hand to Aramis’ shoulder.  

The meaning is clear.  “Yeah?” Aramis asks him, hands pulling playfully at the man's fly.  “I think we can,” Aramis smirks as he sinks to his knees, pulling the man’s dick out through the fly of his boxers.  

This is something he can do, something he’s good at that makes people happy.  He licks a long stripe up the side of the man’s cock, before taking the head in his mouth.  He knows they don’t have much time.  But this man seems quite happy with Aramis’ technique, body trembling when he pushes forward til his nose presses into the man’s belly.  He feels accomplished as the man spills down his throat, but moments later, he’s jerking off alone in a toilet stall.  After, he feels nothing but shame and emptiness.  It’s not an unusual feeling.

Nervously, he washes his hands a few times and tries to rinse out his mouth, but he feels very conspicuous as he leaves the bathroom.  Athos is reading in his chair as he approaches.  

“There you are,” his roommate says.  “Porthos wants us to meet in the doctor’s office.”

Athos gets up and goes immediately, not giving the nervous man a second glance.   Aramis follows though his palms are suddenly sweaty.  They enter into a small therapy room with four comfortable looking armchairs all facing each other.  Dr. Treville is already seated with Porthos to his right.  

“Have a seat,” the doctor intones, his demeanor giving nothing away.  

Athos takes the seat to the doctor’s left, leaving the seat in the middle for Aramis.  

“Well,” the doctor begins. “After group therapy yesterday, I thought we’d try something different.  This will be a much smaller group.”  Dr. Treville pauses, a small smile on his face.  “If you all agree, that is.”

There’s silence, more acquiescence than agreement.  Aramis still feels trapped and he lashes out.  “Only if Porthos goes first,” he says, trying to soften his words with a smile as if it’s a joke.  “I’m sure there’s more to your story.”

Porthos seems caught off guard, but he takes a breath and sits up in his seat, looking over at Dr. Treville.  The doctor nods.  “Certainly, you can tell them about our meeting.”

“Sure,” Porthos starts.  “By the time, I reached my teens…”

“No,” Aramis interrupts, fingers clawing into the arm rests.  “I’m sorry.  You don’t have to.  That was terrible of me.”

Porthos smiles at him, but he feels further away than ever.  “No, I want to do this with you,” the nurse looks away from him and towards Athos.  “When my mom passed, I was terrified.  I didn't know what to do.  It was easy, obvious really, that I would be scooped up by a gang.  I made friends in the neighborhood, made a life, but I was also angry, so so angry.  By the time I was a teen, I was moving up the ranks of a street gang because I was big and strong and good in a fight.  I could spin it and say that I was defending my friends, my neighborhood, or something.  But that wouldn’t be the whole truth.  When I met Treville, I had been picked up by the cops a few times, but never convicted.”

He pauses there, obviously affected by the story he's about to tell.  Treville seems sympathetic, but he also prompts the nurse to continue, “Go ahead and tell them.”

Porthos let's out a big breath.  “One night, I got drunk and I woke up the next morning beside a dead body.  I was picked up for the murder, but I couldn’t remember.  I didn't even know if I was a murderer.  But I was afraid because I knew it was possible.”  Porthos pauses again and Aramis feels tears pricking at his eyes.  “Treville found out the truth and got me out.  But he also helped me get out of that life, go to school, get a job.  And he talked me through why I was so angry.  I was angry for all of the people that I lost because society abandoned us.  But I was also angry at my dad for not being there, at my mom for leaving me alone, at my friends for not wanting more out of life.  It was hard to admit that I was angry at people that I loved.”

Aramis is hunched into his chair as he listens.  He feels awful for Porthos and almost embarrassed of his more secure childhood. .  

“Does this story make you feel differently about Porthos?” Treville asks them.  “Do you feel afraid or uncomfortable?”

“No,” Aramis answers vehemently, not giving Athos a chance to answer as he rushes to the nurse’s defense.  

Treville questions him further. “Porthos admits that he resorted to violence in his past.”

“He's not like that,” Aramis defends, snarling.  

“Being in the military, you are more accustomed to violence,” Treville continues. “What about you, Athos?”

Athos appears to give the matter appropriate weight though it makes Aramis want to tear his hair out.  “No, it doesn't change things for me.”

Treville nods seriously.  “Well, then I will see you all tomorrow to continue these sessions,” Dr. Treville dismisses them.  

They’re a pretty despondent bunch as they make their way back to their room by rote.  Once there, Aramis sees how tired Porthos looks.  And a glance at Athos reminds him that both men were up last night.  Again.  Because of him.  

“You’re tired,” Aramis states reaching out a hand to grasp Porthos’ wrist.  Even that small touch grounds him.  “You both are,” he looks to the stoic other man.  “Take a nap.  Porthos, you can use my bed.”

Athos takes the suggestion, sitting on his bed and pulling off his shoes.  Porthos objects, unsurprisingly.  

“I can’t kick you out of your room,” Porthos decries.

“You’re not,” Aramis insists, pulling the big man with him to the bed.  “I’ll stay here and read.”

“There’s not even a chair in here,” Porthos stutters. 

Aramis shakes his head at the man’s stubbornness and toes out of his shoes.  Sitting with his back to the headboard, he scoots over to one side and pats the other.  “Plenty of room, even for you,” he smirks, picking up the Bible from the bedside table like the matter is already settled. 

He ignores Porthos as he huffs and takes his time turning off the overhead light and removing his shoes.  “Do you always get your way?” Porthos complains even as he settles down on his side. 

“Yes,” Aramis answers, chancing a stroke of his hand across the broad shoulders.  Shortly, Porthos collapses, limp with his face smushed against Aramis’ knee.  His rumbling snores fill the air.  Athos takes longer, fighting it like a little kid, his body curled tight.  Aramis wishes he could touch them both.  

Aramis himself is tired and troubled.  Having them both close is a balm, though.  They would probably object if they knew how clingy he is being, a grown man.  Porthos would undoubtedly tell him it’s not healthy.  Aramis knows it's not because it will only hurt more when they leave.  


	5. Chapter 5

Athos wakes first, slowly uncurling and turning over. On the other bed, Aramis meets his eyes and smiles at him.  His eyes follow down Aramis’ arm, where the younger man is slowly stroking the nurse’s back as the big man slumbers on with his mouth open.  Aramis looks back down at Porthos with an indulgent smile on his face.  It appears as if the religious man never even opened the good book, instead watching over them.  They make a nice picture so Athos simply watches the two of them and drifts, still tired.  At least, until his stomach rumbles from their missed lunch.  He realizes that Aramis also skipped lunch while sitting with them.  

While he’s watching, Porthos snorts himself awake, squeezing Aramis’ leg like a  plushie while he stretches.  But after relaxing again, he too doesn’t move, content to let Aramis stroke his back. Athos feels a little jealous.  

“Mmm, I remember my mom rubbing my back like this,” the nurse murmurs.  

Aramis’s smile is faint.  “What else do you remember of her?”

But Porthos’ smile is big and bright in his remembrance.  “I remember her dark eyes and deep laugh.  She made me feel safe when she held me close.”

Athos looks at them and thinks how they fit, and not just physically.  They both reach out to each other in their pain, drawing comfort from the closeness.  Athos doesn’t want comfort, he doesn’t want closeness.  He wants to be miserable.  

Porthos knocks Aramis’ legs, “What abou’ you?”

“My mother was beautiful, also with dark eyes.  She was so strong, and always happy and charming,” Aramis’ smile widens.

Athos watches as Porthos’ brow furrows and knows something isn’t adding up.  But Aramis seems mostly well-adjusted.  He’s happy, comforting, an open book.  It seems his only real problem is that the assholes upstairs won’t leave him alone.  And the man doesn’t even seem bothered by that.  It seems strange but Athos wonders if that’s not the best way to be.  Maybe Aramis is the healthiest one of them because he knows how to move on.

“Athos?” Aramis is looking at him with these big eyes and Athos drops his eyes, shifting to sit up against the headboard.  

“Are we really doing this?” he asks.  “We’re alone.  The doctor’s not here to make us.”

“I bet you were an only child with a distant mother,” Aramis continues casually.  “She never had time for you?”

“Actually, she was kind and soft spoken,” Athos can’t resist defending her.  He remembers her grey eyes, gleeful as he and Thomas recounted their daily adventures across the dinnertable.  “She would read to us every night, holding us close.”

“She sounds like a real confidant,” the younger remarks.  

Athos looks over as Porthos sits up.  “Yes,” he murmurs.  “She was that.”  He remembers he could tell her anything, including his flights of fancy, though he was otherwise expected to be serious and responsible.  

“You said us?  Do you have siblings?” Aramis continues, his curiosity unsatisfied.

“Yes, I had a younger brother, Thomas,” he answers.  Then he turns away again, rolling off the other side of the bed to stand.  “We shouldn’t be stuck in this room all day.”

Aramis is true to his word not to ask, sucking back in the words he wants to say.  Athos waits for them to exit the room first, the two men knocking into each other playfully like puppies.  In the rec room, he finds a quiet corner to read and the two others separate.  Porthos no doubt wants to check on other patients.  Aramis flits around the room, charming everyone.  The younger man plays a game with a middled-aged woman who was sitting alone at a card table playing with the game’s pieces before watching a football game with another man his own age.  The only strange thing is when Aramis catches the eye of a hefty man walking past the couch and then follows the man into the common bathroom.  

It’s clear what’s going on and Athos rolls his eyes at his roommate’s wanton behavior. It discomfits him on a level that he doesn’t want to investigate, but he can’t help remembering what Aramis looked like the other night.  It was surprising to see the striking man like that, naked and moaning.  But his reflections are interrupted when an unknown orderly approaches him, informing him the doctor would like to see him.  He looks around for Porthos, but the nurse only nods back at him in reassurance.

The meeting is about Athos taking medication.  The doctor is quite straightforward about it all, which he appreciates.  While his first instinct is to refuse, he supposes that it’s a bit late to proclaim he’s against chemical help.  In the end, he acquiesced a lot easier to drugs than talk therapy.  

When he returns the rec room, Porthos is no longer there, but he spies Aramis and a blonde woman are in a corner, her hand on his chest in that stupidly low cut shirt.  His curly head is tilted forward to be closer to the woman’s height as she speaks in his ear.  Athos heads over to interrupt even as the woman steps forward, pressing her body against the man where he stands against the wall. 

“Aramis!” he hisses in castigation.  

The woman jumps in surprise, allowing Aramis to slip guiltily away to the side.  Athos can’t help chastising the man further.  “You know, if you want them to let you out of here, you should stop that.”

Aramis simply laughs and doesn’t pull away.  “We were just talking.  I’m a friendly guy.”

Athos, however, is rather irrationally angry and simply walks away.  Behind him, he can hear Aramis chuckle and then huff while hurrying after.  It’s not unusual for the two of them to eat their meal silently, and they both clear their trays quickly after having skipped lunch.  But for once, Athos is not brooding over his past.  After dinner, Aramis seems content to follow him back to their room despite his surliness.  He sits against his headboard with his book, but he watches out of one eye as his roommate takes a second shower for the day and then lies down in bed.  It’s not cold in their room, but Aramis covers himself in blankets so that his face is barely visible as he attempts reading the Bible.  

Shaking himself, Athos tries to focus back on his own book until after Aramis has closed his eyes and let the book drop.  Only then, does Athos lie back on his bed.  He’s tired despite his earlier nap, but he’s not surprised when he wakes up in the night.  Lying there awake, he feels eyes on him in the dark.  He turns over to see his roommate’s shadowed form sitting up in bed, turned towards him.  But when he calls the man’s name, Aramis just lies back down without a word.  

Disturbed, he’s yet unwilling to intrude on the man’s private horrors.  He watches the huddled lump of comforter until he falls asleep again.  When he wakes in the morning, Aramis is gone and he can hear the shower running.  Porthos knocks and comes in while he’s waiting in bed for his turn.  

“He’s in the shower.  Again,” Athos says preemptively as he runs a hand through his hair.  

Porthos frowns but shrugs, “Maybe a military thing.”

Athos nods.  It’s hard to picture Aramis in the military with his long hair and dislike of following rules, gregarious and sexual behavior.  Maybe that is where all of the poor man’s problems stem from.  

Aramis steps out of the bathroom then with just a towel tied around his hips.  It’s hard to notice anything else about the man when his beautiful body is bare and damp with water.  Athos is not unaffected as he skirts past into the steamy room.  Behind, he can hear Porthos curse, “Damn you.  Put on some clothes,” and Aramis’ deep laughter.  

When he steps out of the bathroom dressed in his usual jeans and hoodie, though, he can feel the tension in the atmosphere of the room.  Water trickles down his neck as he moves toward Porthos who is standing to the side with his arms crossed.  The big man is watching an anxious, almost manic Aramis make a mess of his bed.  He’s searching the bedclothes for something.  

Suddenly, he straightens and pushes both hands into his wet curls.  “You two go ahead without me,” he says, not looking at them.  

Athos is about to take him at his word, but Porthos answers for both of them.  “We’re staying.  What are you looking for?”

Aramis jerks his head and then drops to the floor.  Athos raises his eyebrows as he watches his roommate with his butt in the air and his head under the bed.  

“There!” he shouts and then wiggles back out.  He’s holding the Bible that he was in bed with last night.  

“Can we go?” Athos huffs, but Aramis fusses with remaking the bed for another minute.  

It’s clear something is up with the other man, but he tells himself that it’s not his business.  He can’t possibly know about a man traumatized by war.  He couldn’t keep his brother safe, a regular civilian in a nice house in a safe neighborhood.  He wants a drink, anything to muddy his thoughts.  

Looking like he hasn’t slept in days, Aramis only plays with his food at breakfast instead of eating it.  And though he still smiles at the other patients, his hair is flat from constantly running his hands through it.  But still Athos doesn’t mention it, telling himself that no one looks their best in hospital.  

Finished, Athos stands with his tray and his roommate copies him.  Together, they move towards the tray return.  Athos sees the woman coming, the young one from art class.  He doesn’t know any of their names, and he’s not interested in making a polite introduction now.  He moves quickly to put down his tray as she reaches out a hand to Aramis’ arm, his roommate’s face  turned away and not seeing her approach.  

Aramis reacts like he’s under attack, dropping his tray as he flinches and bringing his arm around swinging in defense.  Without thinking, Athos slides between them, stepping into the blow.  It hits Athos’ shoulder and manages to rattle his teeth with the strength of it.  He and the woman are both stunned, mouths dropped open.  But it’s nothing compared to the shock on Aramis’ white face.  

The three of them are simply standing stunned when Porthos bursts through the crowd.  At the appearance of the nurse, Aramis bolts like a gazelle with a lion chasing it.  And for a moment, Porthos looks like he’ll hunt him down like the proverbial lion too.  Athos grabs his arm to stop him.

“Calm down,” he instructs.  “There’s only one place he can have privacy.”

The bathroom doors don’t even lock, but Athos has a feeling that’s where they’ll find him.  

Porthos blinks and then places careful hands on Athos.  “Are you alright?  C’mon, the doctor should see to your arm.”

Athos looks around at the audience that’s gathered and leads the way out of the cafeteria.  “I’m fine.  Though, that skinny shit can hit.”  He grimaces as he rolls his arm.  

The big man barks out a surprised laugh.  “Yeah, I saw that.”

Athos rolls his eyes though he’s amused.  “C’mon, let’s find him.”

He leads the way back to their room and then stops in front of the bathroom.  Porthos then steps up and calls through, “Aramis!  I need to hear your voice or I’m coming in!”

“How’s Athos?  And Emilie?” Aramis’ low voice is hard to hear.  Athos assumes Emilie is the young woman.  

“Emilie was shocked,” Porthos answers and there’s an anguished sound from inside.  “And Athos…”

“I’m fine,” Athos cuts in. 

“I hit you,” Aramis replies, sounding upset.  “Hard.”

“Why don’t you come out and check him for yourself?” Porthos suggests.  “Know you had some medic training.”

There’s the sound of movement and Aramis grumbles, “Is nothing classified?”  Then the door is ripped open and Aramis tips his chin down to glare at them.  “Off with your shirt then,” he orders.  

Athos is surprised at the command in the other man’s voice.  Acquiescing, he begins to unbutton his shirt and take it off one side.  Sitting on the bed, he stays quiet as his arm is prodded and manipulated.  There’s a red area that is sure to bruise but that’s all.  At the moment, he’s more self-conscious about his un-muscled form in front of the other two than he is worried about his arm.

Once Aramis has finished his examination, he seems to deflate.  “I never meant to hurt you.  Or Emilie,” he apologizes, sitting on the bed beside Athos.  

“It was an accident,” Athos professes.  

“That’s why you’re here,” Porthos says, sitting on the bed opposite them.  “We’re going to help.”

“Help?  Is that what’s been happening here for two months?” Aramis says harshly.  But he backtracks as Porthos’ face hardens.  “I’m sorry.  That wasn’t fair.”

Athos frowns looking from one face to another, vaguely remembering the nurse mentioning this before.  “Two months?” he asks.  

Aramis looks away as Porthos answers.  “Aramis was in the upstairs ward for about eight weeks before we could convince the Board to let you both move.”

Athos’ head spins at the implications.  Two months all alone?  Or two months with those orderlies?

Porthos reaches across the beds and grasps the military man’s hand.  “You’re here now.  And you won’t go back.”

But Aramis pulls his hand away.  “Maybe I belong there.  I hit Athos, and I...I had sex with another patient.”

Athos looks at his lap, but even he sees the disappointment on Porthos’ face.  “Not Marguerite?” the nurse asks.

“No,” Aramis confirms.  “There’s a man.  I don’t know his name, propositioned me in the common bathroom.”

“Ok,” the nurse accepts the news calmly.  “I want you to tell me if you feel the need to do that again.  Or immediately after you do anything like that again.” 

Chastened, the curls shake as Aramis nods.  

Porthos stands then.  “We’re late to meet Treville.  And after all this, we probably need a session so let’s head over.”

Treville is waiting impatiently as they arrive.  He shares a significant look with Porthos as they all sit.  Athos watches as Treville visually examines Aramis’ sulking form in the chair.  He’s not surprised when the doctor’s attention turns to him instead.  He’s not happy, though.  Normally, he would leave rather than talk to anyone about this.  

“Athos, can you tell us what brought you into the hospital?” Treville starts.  

“I’d prefer not to,” Athos replies.  

“Where were you that day?” Treville continues, undaunted by his attitude.  

“I went to work that day,” he answers.  

“But was that where you were before the hospital?” the doctor probes.  

Athos huffs.  “No, I was at a bar.”  He can feel Aramis’ sad eyes on him but he refuses to acknowledge his audience.  “I was drinking,” he admits.  

Treville wisely takes the win and moves on.  “Any particular reason to drink that day or is that routine?”

“Just another day,” Athos grits out.  

“So there was no particular reason for you to drink excessively that day?”  Treville asks.  “According to his birth certificate, it was your brother’s birthday.”  Treville gives in and prompts him.  

Athos stays silent, letting Treville lay out what he can’t say.  

“Your brother, Thomas, who, according to the newspapers, was murdered in your childhood home,” Treville pauses there.  Waiting perhaps for a comment that will never come.  

Athos closes his eyes and waits.  He knows what’s coming, but he won’t be the one to say it.  

It’s a surprise when it is Aramis’ voice that breaks the silence.  “Who murdered Thomas, Athos?” he asks.  

Athos turns his face away and swallows hard.  It’s harder to be belligerent with his gentle roommate.  “Why don’t you ask the doctor?  It seems he followed the case closely.”

Treville simply shakes his head in answer and Athos suddenly just needs to get out of here.  He stands up and bolts toward the door.  

“Don’t!” Porthos voice stops him.  It’s pleading not demanding.  

He doesn’t know what will happen if he leaves, where he will go, what will become of him.  Could he simply continue as CEO in his father’s company still, despite wanting to never see the place again?  

But he doesn’t know if he can stay.  He doesn’t know if he can even actually form the words.  He lifts his arms to rest his hands on either side of the doorway, fighting with himself.  “It was my wife,” he finally spits the words out.  “He found out that she wasn’t who she said she was.  She was lying about everything.  And when he found out, she killed him.”

“So you feel guilty,” Porthos prompts him.  

“Guilty?” Athos repeats, startled into turning around.  “I was so selfish.  I knew nothing about her.”

“Athos, you couldn’t have…”

“That’s  **not** why I feel guilty,” Athos continues, the words pouring out now.  “Not because I brought her there or because I was responsible for him.  Because I still love her!” he shouts.  He stands there, breathing hard, facing them.  

Aramis and Porthos are standing too, looking like they want to rush over to him.  Tentatively, Aramis offers, “That makes you human.  You don’t just forget…”

“How would you know?” Athos spits, tired of comforting, soft words.  “Has this happened to you?”

Like a cowering dog, the younger man sinks back into his seat, shaking his head.  “I’m afraid that it is I who hurts the ones that I love,” he confesses with a haunted smile.

Guilt draws Athos close to the chairs again.  Porthos sits and asks, “What happened?  Was there a trial?”

Athos is suspicious, wondering if Porthos doesn’t already know.  “She was convicted, but it was overturned.  I don’t know which made me feel worse.”

“You wonder if she ever loved you at all, right?” Aramis asks sympathetically.  

Athos practically stumbles back into the chair, one hand in his wild hair.  “Shouldn’t I be over her?  She lied to me.  She never loved me.  She killed Thomas and had the audacity to ask me to protect her.  To lie for her!”

The others react to that last bit of news, but Athos is on a roll now.  “And yet, I blame myself even for condemning her,” he finishes in a strained whisper.  

There is silence as they all process this.  After it happened, everyone had an opinion, about his actions after the murder or even before the murder.  Everyone whispered that he never should have married her, or that he shouldn’t have put his honor and pride before her.  It ran the gamut.  

He barely knows these men, but he instinctively believes that they will understand.  Because he believes that they are honourable.  It’s an interesting thing to be laid bare in front of men whose secrets Athos already knows.     

In the silence, Dr. Treville stands and pats the back of his chair.  “Gentlemen, you can stay in this room if you wish.  I will see you tomorrow.”

As soon as he’s gone, Athos stands himself and hurries out the door.  His feet carry him towards the ward exit.  There’s a red line, a demarcation line.  He doesn’t cross it.  He just stares at it.  Then with a glance at the nurse’s station that guards it, he simply turns on his heel and goes to his room.  Vaguely, he’s aware of two pairs of feet following him.  

Flopping down on his bed, he holds a hand over his eyes.  He wants a drink.  He wants to forget all of this.  He doesn’t know how long he just lies there feeling sorry for himself, but when he removes his hand, the room is darker and the blinds drawn.  Looking over, he sees Aramis is sitting on his bed with his Bible already in his hand.  Despite the man’s seemingly social nature, Aramis is also serious and contemplative.  Athos feels they can be together in the room without there being an expectation of interacting.  

Porthos, however, he can see hovering in the doorway with a frustrated look creasing his face.  The big man doesn’t seem a person for quiet contemplation.  Probably even in his university days, his studying was loud and energetic.  The nurse is clearly assessing the two of them, but he must decide that he can chance leaving them alone because he leaves them with a nod.  

The two roommates spend a quiet evening.  Aramis stays but doesn’t bother him, reading mostly.  Athos picks up his book also but his focus is too distracted to read.  Eventually, his roommate leaves to get them food and then goes to some craft class.  When the other man heads for a showers again though, Athos gives up on reading and just hopes to be able to sleep.  

It’s a vain hope as he wakes in the middle of the night with his stomach in his throat.  

“Athos!” he jumps at the voice but then Aramis is in his sight, gripping his shoulder.  

He shrugs off the well-meaning touch and then throws off the covers suddenly hot and constricted.  Aramis gives him some needed space, moving away but only to sit on the floor, back to the mattress.  Athos is surprised but grateful.  The other man doesn’t intrude, doesn’t interrogate him, but stays near, offering his silent, physical support.  Slowly, Athos lies down, but as he stares at the back of the curly head, he finds himself desperate to break the suddenly oppressive silence. 

“You know you’re next,” he says, his tone accusing.  

Aramis turns so Athos can see his faint smile.  “I have nothing to hide.  I am but a simple soldier,” he says and leans his cheek on the bed.  

Athos isn’t sure about that, but he’s tired, his eyes blinking slowly.  His roommate grabs his hand, holding it lightly with a warmer smile on his face.  “Go to sleep.  I will be here.”

Before he thinks better of it, Athos leans over and kisses the other man.  It’s awkward and unexpected and yet within a moment, Aramis turns it soft and fond.  They separate bare millimeters for Aramis to whisper, “I shouldn’t.”

“I know,” he sighs, resting their foreheads together.  “I just needed to know if I still could.”  He presses their lips together again, more passionately than before.  It’s so easy with Aramis.  And unbidden, Athos thinks of how easy it is with Porthos, imagines being enveloped in that strength and resiliency.  He groans as he pulls away.  

He might have thought that Aramis would be seducing him, pushing for more but Athos thinks he knows the man better than that.  Instead, dark eyes are smiling as the striking man lays his stubbled cheek back down.  Their hands are still linked as they both close their eyes.  

When Athos wakes, the sun is peeking through the blinds.  Aramis is still on the floor and Porthos is snoring away on the other bed.  

Since there’s no one to see, he reaches out to twirl a single short curl around his finger.  What a strange situation, to meet these men here.  He barely knows them, but Aramis spent the night on the floor just to hold his hand after a nightmare.  And Porthos could actually leave, go home and forget  them for the night, but still the nurse stays. 


	6. Chapter 6

Porthos snorts himself awake, feeling confused and still tired.  He didn’t mean to fall asleep.  Rolling to his side, he practically rolls off the small bed.  His gaze lands on Aramis slumped on the floor, his legs bent under him.  Porthos can’t help the way his gaze lingers, traveling over the lean form.  He’s surprised to look up and meet Athos’ green eyes.  They share a long look over Aramis’ curly head.  Porthos knows that he’s gotten in way too deep with these two.  

He remembers when he first started at the hospital and Treville warned him that the patients needed a professional.  He couldn’t adopt needy people like stray cats.  

Both pairs of eyes watch as Aramis wakes, rubbing his cheek against the mattress like a kitten.  Athos doesn’t withdraw his hand in time, and Aramis turns into the touch, smiling indulgently as he blinks open his eyes.  He straightens slowly with a groan of discomfort and softly brushes his thumb over the back of Athos’ hand as he moves away.  

Porthos narrows his eyes at the blatant show of affection.  Something has changed between his two favorite patients last night. But he doubts it’s the sex that he’s imagining considering their positions when he snuck in.  As Aramis moves toward the bathroom, Porthos raises an eyebrow at Athos behind the younger man’s back.   

“Something happened between you two,” Porthos starts as soon as the bathroom door shuts.

“We didn’t,” Athos denies, which is a dead giveaway.  So Porthos simply waits.  

“We kissed,” Athos elaborates, “I kissed him.”

Porthos dips his chin, unsure of what to say.  His first reaction is personal, not professional.  He’s jealous.  The other two men are bonding in a way that he can’t, that he  _ shouldn’t _ as their nurse.   And he’ll be left behind.

Athos moves to sit up fully, in that formal way he has.  “Ok,” Porthos finally responds, calling upon his training.  “I'm not going to advocate starting a relationship in here.  But you two have a special relationship, not a destructive one.”

Athos tilts his head slightly.  “You have a relationship with him too,” he says.  

Their eyes meet and hold again, camaraderie passing between them.  

Aramis interrupts them, appearing in a cloud of steam.   He seems to be in a good mood despite his night on the floor.  He complains about it good-naturedly to Porthos over breakfast, allowing Athos to withdraw into silence.  Aramis tries to convince Porthos that the crick in his neck is going to adversely affect his art in class.  Porthos just laughs and teases him, “It can’t get much worse!”

Porthos gives in and sticks close during the art class.  It keeps Marguerite to only looking from a distance.  The woman is a repeat patient with a borderline personality disorder, and the nurse knows the combination of her and Aramis is a disaster waiting to happen.  But Porthos also keeps close as a kind of comfort for the upcoming group session.  He keeps expecting Aramis to convey some sort of dread, but the charming patient keeps chatting even as they take their respective chairs around Treville.  

“Guess it’s me today,” Aramis has the balls to start the conversation.  “I can guess what you want me to talk about.”

“Sure, we can start there,” Treville says coolly.  Aramis’ face betrays just a tiny hint of apprehension at the response.  And, already, Porthos wants to leap across the room and hold him tight.  Glancing across, Athos is wearing his customary bored expression, like he actually believes Aramis’ detached mask.  

Aramis leans back, sure of himself.  “My team was ambushed.  Most of the men died.”

“How many men?” Treville asks, his voice hard, commanding tone calling Aramis to attention.

“22, si…” Aramis cuts himself off before he finishes the ‘sir’.  

“But it wasn’t even a mission, was it?” Treville continues.  

A ghost of a smile tilts Aramis’ lips as he looks over at Porthos.  “How do you both know all this?”  But with a deep breath, he answers plainly.  “No, it was a training exercise for winter weather.  We were hiking in the mountains in the snow.”

“What what time did it occur?  Were you eating?  Were you hiking or...?”

“Sleeping,” Aramis cuts in.  “We were sleeping.”

“So men were slaughtered while they slept,” Aramis frowns at the phrasing, but even Athos doesn’t seem surprised by the story.  Porthos supposes that the man must have supposed the story would be deadly.  “And you woke to see their deaths.”

“Yes, I was at the other end of the camp,” Aramis answers, telling the story as facts.  “Our weapons were stored and I only had time to grab the hunting knife that I had on me.  But I managed to wound their leader in the back.”

“And you were the only survivor?”

“No,” Aramis responds, his shift in his chair another tell.  “There was another survivor.  He saved my life.”

“And how did he do that?” Treville prompts.

“I had a head wound,” Aramis gestures to his skull, casually.  “Marsac pulled me to safety in the trees.”

“Marsac,” Treville queries, picking up on the use of a name.  “He was a friend?”

“They were my  _ brothers _ ,” Aramis corrects him, leaning forward as he becomes agitated.  

Treville acknowledges the rebuttal with a nod.  “But you spent much of your free time with Marsac, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Were you having sex with him?” Treville asks bluntly.  

A glint of humor returns to those dark eyes.  “Yes, we had sex sometimes.”

“And what happened to Marsac?” Treville asks, killing every spark of life in Aramis’ eyes.  “He didn’t return.”

“He left,” Aramis replies in a low stern voice.  

“He deserted,” Treville re-iterates, making Aramis clench his jaw.  “How did you realize?  Was he simply gone?”

“No,” Aramis defends his friend vehemently.  He lifts his hand to his left temple seemingly unconsciously.  “Once we were in the trees, I passed out.  I woke up and everything was quiet.  Marsac was...he was kneeling amongst our brothers.  I tried...he’d wrapped a bandage around my head.  I tried to get up, to go to him, but he just walked off.”

“So he was your friend, your brother, whom you were intimate with, and he left you there to die in the snow?” Treville asks caustically.  

“No!” Aramis’s voice is still quiet but intense.  He’s almost out of his seat now.  “You weren’t there.  Half of them were shot in their sleep, just slaughtered in front of him, for no reason.  How can you blame him?”

Porthos glances at Athos.  The stoic man now looks more troubled, confronted with the specifics.  Porthos knows it’s only the start.  

“But he left you.  You also witnessed that,” Treville’s calm voice seems out of place even knowing what Porthos knows.  “What did you do?  Was there a car?”

Aramis is frowning like he doesn’t understand the point.  “We were meant to hike out so we didn’t have a vehicle.”

“What about a radio?  A phone?”

“The radio was damaged,” Aramis rubs his head some more, his memories probably jumbled.  Porthos wonders whether he even looked for the radio.  

“So how did you get out?”

“I hiked out, like planned,” Aramis answers, sounding confused.  

“You had a head injury?” Treville reminds him.  But Aramis only shrugs so he continues, “Did you put on a coat?”

“I don’t think so.  I’m not sure.”

“You said it was snowing,” Treville pushes him.  “Did you bring food? Water?”

Aramis shivers, but he drops his hand and glares at the doctor.  “I’m not sure.”

Treville opens a folder.  “So you hiked miles in the snow with your head cracked open like an egg,” he states, pulling out an x-ray.  Porthos sees that both Aramis and Athos turn away from the sight of it.  “Did you walk out or did you crawl?  How many days did it take you?  You’re lucky you’re not dead, and all because Marsac left.”

Aramis shakes his head, still firm in his denial.  “I shouldn’t have let him leave.  He threw his whole life away.”

Porthos shares a look with Treville.  This tactic isn’t getting through.  “After, your superiors said that your behavior became even more reckless, especially sexually.”

Aramis scoffs, sitting back a bit.  “That’s ridiculous.”

Treville takes over, with his folder of evidence again.  “Your superiors said you had sexual liaisons while actively on missions, including with the wife of a mission’s target, and with a rescued hostage.”

Aramis manages to look vaguely embarrassed but also proud of himself.  “Who can resist me?” he defends himself.  

“Let’s take that last one, why did you have sex with her?”

Aramis tilts his head.  “We commiserated over past losses, and she came onto me.”

“She was married,” Treville counters.  “To an important ally.”

“It was an arranged marriage!  I just wanted to make her happy.  I’m not sure her husband ever treated her gently.”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Athos interjects.  “She asked, so you just gave yourself to her.  Just like that.”

Athos’s face is impassive, though Aramis seems confused about responding.  Taking pity, Porthos tries to move them along.  “Why do you describe sex as ‘making someone else happy’?”

Aramis’s smirk is much diminished.  “Well, it does make people happy, certainly.”

No one is amused.  Porthos still wonders about the man’s motivation, if it makes Aramis happy or whether he just needs the validation.  Treville continues, “Do you think that your reliance on sex as a coping mechanism is related to your mother?”

Aramis shakes his head as if disappointed by the bias in the insinuation and his smirk grows.  “Yes, I grew up with my mother in a brothel, but she was a wonderful woman who did the best she could for me.”  

Athos looks like he’s trying to prevent his eyebrows from meeting his hairline.  Things have certainly taken a turn from what Aramis had previously told him.  But the problem is not just the trauma he experienced in the military, it’s how he responds to stress. 

“Tell me about growing up there,” Treville tells him.  

“My mother was kicked out by her family for being pregnant and unmarried.  She said the brothel was much better than street corners,” Aramis shoots an apologetic look at Porthos.  “I was one of the older children there.  So I helped the younger ones.  I didn’t want the women to deal with messy, crying children on top of everything.”

“So you only wanted the mothers to see their children when they were happy?”

“Yes,” Aramis responds, clearly not seeing anything wrong with this idea.  “My mother always kept a positive outlook and didn’t want me to complain.”

“What about the men?” Athos suddenly bursts in, looking like he just couldn’t hold the words back any longer.  “The customers?  What about the pimp?”

Porthos understands what Athos is driving at, but Porthos also knows that plenty of trauma happened even without being molested.  In addition to everything else, Aramis was clearly aware of what happened to his mother.

The man in question looks unruffled, however, as if he doesn’t realize the implications of the question.  “Mostly they wanted us to stay out of sight.  Some were nice, or even brought us little gifts.”

Athos looks sick.  “But what about the horses?” he asks, seemingly taken aback that Aramis might have outright lied to him.  

“That was when I went to live with my father,” Aramis explains, not seeming sheepish about his obfuscation at all.  Athos just seems confused now.  

“Tell us about that,” Treville orders, unperturbed.  

“My mother wrote to him.  So I lived with him when I was about ten.  He lives on a beautiful property in the country, with horses.  I learned a lot about them,” Aramis smiles at Athos.  

Porthos notices how Aramis’s description only focuses on the positives.  He doesn’t mention how he had to leave his mother and siblings and his home behind.  

“And how did your father treat you?”

“With christian charity,” Aramis answers as if rehearsed.  “He and his family are very devout.  He wanted me to become a priest, to absolve us both, I suppose.”

“The local priest then, Father Bernard.  You spent a lot of time with him?” Treville prompts him.  

“Yes, he tutored me all the time,” Aramis answers, giving nothing away.  

Treville opens his folder again.  “You know he has since been convicted of molestation, rape, and child abuse.”

“What?” clearly shocked, the younger man leans forward in his seat.  

“Of almost twenty children,” Treville pulls out a paper and Aramis eagerly grabs it.  

Porthos is actually confused himself now.  He and Treville were positive Aramis must be another victim of the priest.  The doctor seems unsurprised by the reaction though.  

“You thought you were the only one,” Treville starts.  

Aramis glances up with a glare.  He’s on the edge of his seat again.  “It wasn’t like that,” he chastises.  “I never thought he’d hurt anyone.”

Athos almost looks apoplectic, his fingers gripping the armrest like he wants to launch out of it.  “You had sex with him,” he accuses.  “And you don’t think of it as abuse.”

“I knew what he wanted,” Aramis says carefully, putting aside the paper.  “It turned out priests are just as sinful as everyone else.  It helped me to decide not to join the clergy.”

“Tell us about that,” Treville tries to get them back on track.  “You had your father’s permission to join the military before eighteen.”

“Well, I...there was a girl, Isabelle,” Aramis seems actually saddened by this story.  “She fell pregnant.  I was going to marry her, but she lost the pregnancy and suddenly she was gone.  Her father sent her away.”

“Did you want to marry her?” Porthos asks, somewhat for his own curiosity.  “Or was it just the circumstances?”

“I loved her,” Aramis replies.  “I wanted a family with her.  After she miscarried, she said that I wasn’t cut out for that life and then she was gone.”

Porthos tries to read between the lines.  He wonders if what Aramis is most upset about the lost baby, the potential of a family. 

“Anyway, so I didn’t want to go back to being a priest, and I told my father that I would leave whether he signed or not.  I haven’t spoken with him since,” Aramis taps his hands on the armrests as if preparing to get up.  Clearly, he thinks this is finished.  

“What happened to your mother,” Athos asks, mimicking the way that  the younger man never uses a diminutive for her.  

Aramis quickly answers, not interested in being derailed from leaving.  “She passed away.  Before I left my father’s,” he answers without mentioning if he had the opportunity to see or speak to her before her death, if he even knew of her death.  

But Porthos glances at Treville who minutely shakes his head and then stands himself.  “Thank you for your candour,” he says.  

Porthos almost snorts aloud.  Aramis didn’t refuse to talk like Athos, but he wasn’t emotionally honest, even with himself.  

Aramis is quick to leave the room and Athos follows with a look back.  Porthos stays behind a moment with Treville who is picking up the scattered contents of Aramis’s file.  The x-ray is on the table and an arrest photo of a woman that’s clearly his mother.  He resists the urge to look at what else is in there.  

Treville looks vaguely frustrated, but then again that’s basically his normal expression.  Still, he sighs, “Porthos, maybe he’ll open up with the two of you.”

“I don’t know what will shake him up enough that he’ll realize what’s happened to him.” Porthos answers, shaking his head as he leaves the room.  

When Porthos comes out to the common room, Aramis seems perfectly fine as he socializes with other patients.  He watches the man for a moment, lingering when Aramis laughs low and intimate.  Athos is in the corner chair, staring intently at the military man himself.  Going over, the nurse wonders that the wrong patient is upset after the therapy session.  

He’s just sat down when Athos speaks.  “I kissed him,” he starts, though the green eyes don’t leave their laughing target.  

Porthos thinks he knows where this is going.  Last night, Athos didn’t understand the roots of the younger man’s problems.  Aramis is a master of making others believe that his issues are merely charming flaws.  

“I shouldn’t have,” Athos eventually continues and then looks at Porthos out of the corner of his eye as if expecting a reprimand.  

“We’re not advocating that he never have sex again,” Porthos explains.  “Or, god forbid, never show affection.”

“He can’t possibly consent,” Athos somehow manages to look down his nose at the nurse.  “He thinks he consented to a priest molesting him.  And god knows what before that.”

“He’s not a child.  And you can’t make decisions for him,” Porthos tries.  

“Says the man literally keeping us from leaving the building,” Athos scoffs.  

Porthos glares at him from under furrowed brows.  “Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time. You both get to decide what happens after this.  When he sees the truth of the past, it won’t be pretty.  He will need support, personally and professionally.”

“What about you?” Athos queries.  

Porthos has his normal response on the tip of his tongue about not being involved.  He doesn’t want to come between the two other men.  But as he looks at Athos’ expression, he feels Athos isn’t just asking for Aramis’ sake.  

He must be silent too long so that Athos looks away again.  “How did you end up so normal?”

Before he can answer, Athos is scurrying out of his chair.  Porthos follows blindly before noticing what the problem is.  The blonde woman is herding Aramis out the door of the rec room

Porthos follows them more slowly as Athos angrily appears to drag Aramis away by an arm.  He smiles briefly at the woman and any patients that appear interested in the commotion.  As he closes the bedroom door behind himself, he’s not sure of what his role should be in this drama.  He’s not sure what exactly Athos is angry about.  

Aramis, of course, is laughing it off.  He steps away from Athos, defending himself.  “I didn’t do anything.  I’ve never touched her, promise.”

“Only because she never cornered you alone in a bathroom,” Athos growls, looking like a father resisting a pouting child.  

But Aramis doesn’t continue to bait the stoic man.  He goes quiet and steps up close to the other man, though he can’t quite get rid of his playful smile.  “It’s not like that with you,” he tells Athos in a low voice before their lips meet.  “You’re not a conquest.”

Athos surges forward suddenly, hands grabbing at the lean man possessively as he pulls Aramis into a deeper kiss.  It only lasts a moment, though, before Athos pulls away from a dreamy looking Aramis and stares over at Porthos.  The nurse is mostly stunned at the implication while Aramis’ face flickers through different emotions: confusion, shock, suspicion, excitement, and lust.  The younger man’s dark eyes assess Athos before he takes a step toward the nurse.  Porthos could protest, there are dozens of reasons he should refuse.  But his hands are already curling around Aramis’ ribs.  He doesn’t pull like Athos but holds, letting Aramis twine around him, letting Aramis seduce him with lips and tongue.  

Aramis is the one to pull away, but the lean man only moves to the side, his body practically slithering down Porthos’ chest.  Athos kisses him before he’s really recovered, commanding where Aramis was persuasive, taking where Aramis offered.  And on his cheek, butterfly soft feeling of a second pair of lips also.  It’s unexpected enough for him to pull away.  

“That’s enough, okay.”

Aramis’ hands are bunching his scrub top with a tight grip.  He can tell that this could quickly go too far, but it’s hard to say no when looking at Aramis’ face, shiny lips and looking at him up through the dark fringe of his lashes.  Porthos cups the back of the younger man’s head and turns to Athos for help.  The two men share a commiserating look as Porthos runs his hand up through those wild curls.  

“C’mon,” Athos encourages, leading the way back towards the door.  “Nobody should be having sex in a hospital.”

Aramis chuckles in that deep sexy way he has.  “Look at you, Mister Social, wanting to go leave the room,” the younger man teases as he exits the room first.  

Porthos had to drop his hand as he lets the two men exit first.  He is tired.  He feels like he hasn’t slept since these two arrived on his ward.  But for the first time, it feels like a good tired, like he’s built something.  They just need to hit pause until the two men are released.  It shouldn’t be much longer, though both men will need to continue therapy.  

He sits with them to have some lunch.  Aramis attends some of the sessions while Athos reads in his chair and looks on disapprovingly.  Porthos only feels a little awkward as he goes about his day while feeling less than professional at the same time.  However, he finds himself smiling and staring off into space a few times. 

That night after Aramis has had his second shower of the day, Porthos fends off entreaties to stay the night.  He refuses to even go near the bed in his effort to preserve the rules.  Particularly, he doesn’t want this to turn into the upstairs ward as Aramis kisses his cheek and breathes a goodnight in his ear.

Athos accepts his rejection without visible disappointment, simply lying down on the bed.  But the stoic man freezes like a statue when Aramis forgoes his own bed and climbs right on top of the prone man, curling up with his cheek pressed to the lean chest.  Frozen, Athos looks like he’s been confronted with an active bomb.  It takes a long moment before Athos places his hands carefully around the younger man, one hand drawn as if by magnets to those wild curls.    It’s difficult for Porthos to leave the two of them snuggled together.  

The next morning starts off wonderfully again.  Porthos can’t help going directly to the patients’ room rather than checking in with Treville about the next step in group therapy.   Finding both men still in bed, he threatens to flatten them both, setting Aramis to giggling.  They both shower and then all eat breakfast.  It’s during the art therapy session that Porthos feels something in the air.  

Marguerite is not present at all in the art class.  It takes almost half the session for Porthos to notice, but when he does, he’s preoccupied with her absence.  It feels more significant than it should.  

Aramis picks up on his change in mood and bumps his shoulder as they exit the classroom, smiling up at him.  It takes a moment for him to realize that Treville is outside the door, motioning Porthos and Aramis into hallway near the exit.  

Treville seems harried.  “Aramis, I’m sorry.  There has been an allegation…”

He hasn’t finished the sentence when there’s a commotion and the doors to the ward burst open.  Four orderlies wearing the red scrubs of the secure ward burst in and immediately grab Aramis by the arms and shoulders.  It’s chaos as Aramis shouts and Porthos pushes an orderly away until Richelieu enter flanked by two more bulky orderlies. 

“Richelieu!” Treville barks.  “This isn’t necessary!”

“That’s your opinion,” Richelieu threatens calmly.  “But this is not your call.”

Richelieu snaps his long pointy fingers and the orderlies begin dragging Aramis toward the exit again.  The fight resumes, but everyone freezes again when the Marguerite comes in the door.  She looks worse than ever with red eyes and she’s embracing herself as if she’s cold, or scared.  

“Ah, my dear,” Richelieu seems to welcome her as he holds out a hand.  “Not to worry.  This man won’t assault you again.”

“What?!” Porthos yells and Aramis yanks one arm free.  “What is going on here?”

“This man, Rene has been allowed to continue his addiction while in your custody, Dr. Treville.  He forced himself on this woman,” Richelieu accuses with apparent glee.

Porthos is still stunned at the accusation when one orderly takes advantage of the distraction and sticks a syringe in Aramis’ thigh.  With a roar of rage, Aramis throws off the restraining hands and knocks two of the orderlies’ heads together.  Then with a flourish of one long arm, he knocks out another orderly standing behind him.  

Unfortunately, that’s when the sedative kicks in and Aramis stumbles, his knees buckling and eyes falling closed.  Porthos rushes forward to catch the man, joined a second later by Athos’s thin arms.   

“Porthos,” Treville intones.  “They have orders from the hospital administrator.”  A hand lands on Porthos’ arm, “We will fix this, but we have to let Aramis go with them for now.”

Athos’ hands drop, his developed sense of respect for authority automatic, but he stays beside Porthos on his knees as the orderlies grab the patient under the armpits to drag him away.  Aramis’s head sways on his neck as there’s a brief tug of war between Porthos and the red-clad men.  Porthos growls with clenched teeth at the offending persons but it is Athos’s hand on the back of his neck makes him finally let go.  In the end, he simply watches like a fool as Aramis is dragged away like a sack of potatoes by men with blood running down their faces.  He can imagine that they won’t be pleased when they get Aramis alone.  And he’s not doing anything to stop them.  

The door closes behind them and Porthos can feel the quiet tension from the rest of the room.  And then Athos stands up.  Porthos rushes to follow, assuming that Athos has a plan or something, something!  But as he moves towards the other man, Athos side-steps away from him.  

“Don’t,” Athos’ voice is low, serious but not overly emotional.  “Apparently, we’re all just captives here, ready to be hauled off to purgatory without so much as a trial.  I don’t think it’s worth continuing any therapy sessions,” he directs this last to Dr. Treville.  

Porthos still moves to follow him, but the man stops him with a hand.  At a loss, Porthos instead marches after Treville to the doctor’s office.  “How could you let that happen?!”  Porthos roars.  “You know what they’re doing to him right now!  Letting them take him even for a moment is too long!”

“And what would you have done?!” Treville bursts out, his temper surfacing as well.  “Punch them and get yourself arrested?  Escape with Aramis so the police could hunt you down?  There was no option.”  The doctor finishes before taking his seat.

Porthos paces in front of the desk and shakes his head compulsively.  He can’t accept the answers as anything but excuses.  And now it’s too late.  He feels like crying and suddenly stops, turning to bend over and put his hands on the desk.  “What do we do now?”

Treville takes a deep calming breath as well.  “Do we know if the allegation is true?”

Porthos hangs his head.  “He swore he’d never touched her.”

He can feel Treville’s suspicious expression.  Lifting his head, he growls at his mentor of so many years, “He wouldn’t lie.  He’s confessed to every stupid thing he’s ever done, shamelessly.”

Treville nods, seemingly satisfied.  “It doesn’t matter anyway.  There’s no proof either way.  Last time, we argued that he had been there far exceeding the time limits.  But after this, the director is not going to care how long he’s up there.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?  They think he’s a predator and they’ll be happy to leave him there forever,” Porthos spits out.  

Treville rubs a hand over his wearied face.  “If he’s being abused, then we need proof.”

Porthos stares at the man in stunned silence.  “Implying that we have to wait for him to be abused.  I’m sure it’s happening  **right now** .”

He can’t stand to be in that office with Treville’s infuriating logic so he rushes out, but there’s only one place that he wants to be.  He goes to  _ their _ room.  Athos has every reason to be angry.  He swore that they were safe and he lied.  The room is dark when he enters, shades drawn and lights off.  Athos is sitting on his own bed in his usual position against the headboard.  

Porthos sits on the side of Aramis’s bed and leans forward on his knees.  “I have to get him out of there.”

He looks up, surprised when Athos suddenly slides forward to sit opposite him.  “Yes, we do,” he says with certainty and command.  Porthos sits up straighter in response.  “Now tell me everything.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! Hopefully, the ending makes sense and it doesn't feel too abrupt. Of course, the story goes on and the healing is never finished.

Porthos explains about the allegations and is gratified when the other man agrees that Aramis wouldn’t lie to them, even about that.  He tells Athos about Richelieu’s machinations and close relationship with the hospital director.  He details everything he knows about the layout of the upstairs floor and entrances and exits and security cameras.  It’s easy to forget that Athos is the patient here.  Still, Porthos is responsible for making sure they both eat.  It’s a job he’s keenly aware that Aramis is much better at.  That night, he beds down on Aramis’s side.  He can’t bear to go home to his empty bed in his safe, free apartment, and he’s afraid to leave Athos alone.  It easier to focus on Athos.  And he knows Athos will disappear into logic and practical things.  

Athos doesn’t tell him an actual plan until the next morning.  They eat breakfast in the cafeteria but the older man is in a rush to get back to the bedroom.  But Porthos has enough time to see that Marguerite is clearly not in attendance any longer on this floor.  

Once back in the room, they retake their now familiar positions facing each other on either bed.  Athos starts with the obvious, “I agree with the doctor.  It’s unlikely we can convince the woman to recant.  And it might not matter even if we did.  We need access to the CCTV up there.”

“It’s not connected to the rest of the hospital, I told you,” Porthos rubs his hands over his face.  “We’d have to get up there to have access.”

“I know.  And that is what we will have to do,” Athos responds, as if it is all obvious.  “And I will need a distraction.”

It takes a moment before the meaning sinks in and then determination settles into his features.  Finally, something to do.  Aramis has only been up there a day, but he can too easily imagine that it’s a day too long.  His head has been filled with horror movies of the possibilities.  He doesn’t think that he can bear to actually watch any videos.  

“When do we do this?” he asks instead.  

They aren’t able to enact the plan for another day.  That’s two nights that Aramis has been taken.  Treville hasn’t forced Porthos to go back to his rounds or Athos to go back to therapy.  Porthos ultimately decides not to tell the older man of their plan.  Just in case the man needs plausible deniability.  

On the streets, he often ran manipulations like this with Charon and Flea.  But it has been years and anticipation makes his blood pump faster as he takes the elevator up to the top floor.  As soon as the doors open, he charges down to the ward’s double doors like a raging bull.  He knows the doors are locked, but he beats his fist on them anyway with his not-inconsiderable strength.  

“Open up!” he shouts.  “I need to speak to Dr. Richelieu!”

He bangs at the door until a couple of orderlies come to quiet him and then continues banging at the door, making sure that he doesn’t hit the men restraining him.  But he makes as much noise as possible, even stamping his feet so that more orderlies come to see.  It’s not a surprise to finally see Richelieu himself come striding out the doors.  He guessed the man himself wouldn’t be able to resist being smug about the whole thing.  

“Nurse!” Richelieu shouts, emphasizing that Porthos’ name wasn’t worth learning.  “What is the meaning of this commotion?”

“I want to see Aramis and make certain that he is alright,” Porthos demands.  

“Who?” Richelieu responds smarmily.  “You must mean that man from your ward, Rene d’Herblay.”

“Yes,” Porthos growls, his temper boiling to a frothing rage.  Faced with the obnoxious man himself, it’s too easy to forget that this is all just a distraction.  Not using Aramis’ chosen name is just a powerplay. 

“Well, in any case, that will not be possible,” Richelieu continues.  “The patients on this ward are none of your concern, nurse.”

“We all know that you’re just doing this to get back at Treville.  To make us look bad for making you follow the rules,” Porthos growls.  

“Some rules don’t apply to every case,” Richelieu defends breezily.  “Now if you excuse me, some of us have work to get on with.”

Porthos manages to restrain himself from punching the man and just slams his fist into the door as it closes behind the man.  He hopes that he’s given Athos enough time to copy the files and sneak back out down the emergency stairwell.  

Athos is waiting for him as the elevator doors open.  “Do you have it?” he asks as he strides out.  

Thin fingers hold up a flash drive.  Seeing it feels like a fist around his heart.  With jerky motions, he waves Athos forward.  They head directly to Treville’s office.  The doctor only lets out an obligatory noise of complaint at the interruption and subsequent takeover of his computer.  Treville pushes his chair back a bit to make room for Athos while Porthos waits behind Treville’s shoulder, seemingly ready to take flight.  

It takes some clicking around to even find Aramis’s room on the right date.  Porthos had begun to worry that they turned off the camera there.  But there he is, lying unconscious on a gurney.  And, for a while, that is all that happens as Athos fast forwards in spurts.  A few orderlies come and go, but nothing much happens until Aramis begins to toss about as he regains consciousness.  He’s managed to sit up and is swaying awkwardly when the orderlies come back in.  

There’s no sound, which might be a blessing because it seems from their actions that they’re taunting the drugged man, pushing him and pulling at his low necked shirt.  Then one grabs a foot and begins yanking Aramis’s shoes off.  Porthos looks away, unable to watch this humiliation and know that it’s already happened.  That he’s too late to save Aramis.  When this happened, he was probably sitting around down here like a bump on a log.  

Looking back up, the video seems absurd in the quiet office.  Like watching porn at work, Aramis is now naked on the screen, one man between his legs, pulling him in, and the other man behind his back, keeping Aramis from moving away.  And then Porthos remembers that the young man doesn’t know how to refuse.  

But on the screen, Aramis shakes his head.  Porthos watches in shock as Aramis tries to say no, his lips pursed to form the O and one hand pushing on the man’s chest.  The only sound Porthos can hear is the sound of his heart pounding between his ears.  Aramis finally learned to say no, and now Porthos wishes that he hadn’t.  The mood changes immediately from taunting to outright aggressive.  There’s a hand around Aramis slim throat as he’s slammed back onto the bed.  Porthos doesn’t even know if the man is capable of fighting back with the drugs in his system.  But Aramis acquiesces, not fighting the hold as he raises his legs, reacting to the intimate touch.  It’s a small favor when the second orderly blocks Aramis’ face from the camera.  

Porthos looks down at his hands at that point.  It’s not necessary to watch the rest.  They’ve gotten what they need.  He backs away and Athos stirs to look over at him.  

“Well,” Porthos says, motioning at the screen.  “Let’s go show the administrator.”

Neither of the other men seem as eager as he is.  “Richelieu, can just say that it’s the fault of a couple of bad apples, fire the orderlies, and keep Aramis up there,” Athos says in a monotone voice.  

“We need evidence that Richelieu knows what’s happening,” Treville continues.

Apparently Porthos is the only one who didn’t realize.  He swears under his breath.  “What if he doesn’t show?” he asks.  Because the bastard is smart.  

“We may have to try again,” Athos says.  

Porthos is so angry that he whirls around and punches a hole straight through the door.  “Again?!” he spins to face the two men as if this is their fault.  “We have to wait for those men to abuse him more so we can steal footage of it?  How can you watch that, and not run up there to rescue him?”

Tears fill his eyes and Treville stands up, giving him a rare hug.  There are no words to comfort him, they all understand what’s at stake here.  When Porthos finally pulls away from his mentor, he sees Athos has sat in the doctor’s chair and is busily scrolling through the footage.  Porthos isn’t shocked by the man’s seeming indifference to their friend’s situation.  He knows that Athos avoid emotions at all costs. 

But the spectre of what happens if they find nothing on the video hangs over them all.

It takes hours,  _ hours _ that Athos sits in front of the screen.  Porthos doesn’t want to watch so he putters around, grabs water and food for them from the cafeteria.  Eventually, Treville leaves for the night and Porthos takes a restless seat in a chair on the other side of the desk.  He’s practically melted into the seat sometime past midnight whent Athos suddenly scoots forward, closer to the monitor.  

“Richelieu is in his room,” Athos murmurs just loud enough for Porthos to hear.  

He runs around the desk in order to see the screen.  Richelieu is indeed there, just inside the doorway while Aramis is struggling to get off of the gurney.  The young man is naked and without blankets and Porthos’ first thought is how cold the lean man must be.  Aramis is always snuggling under blankets.  Painstakingly, the nude man manages to get to his feet and begins to shuffle forward.  The lack of sound is disappointing because it seems like they’re speaking to each other, probably trading insults by their expressions.

“Have they been drugging him the whole time?” Porthos queries as he watches Aramis fall sideways into the wall.  The man beside him slowly nods in answer.  

Aramis is right in front of the doctor now, standing straight as he can, proud and brave as he always is.  Unexpectedly, Richelieu’s face contorts in anger and he strikes out at the vulnerable man.  The drugged man drops like a stone, but he doesn’t stay down, shaking his head and looking up at his attacker defiantly.  Undeterred, Aramis makes it back up to his knees.

Porthos’ face burns with second hand shame as an orderly steps up to the fallen man and grabs a handful of those curls, now greasy and limp.  With his other hand, the orderly pulls down his drawstring scrubs pants, his dick already hard as it hits Aramis underneath his unshaven chin.  It doesn’t look like Aramis struggles at all as he’s forced to swallow it down, but the second orderly grabs the patient’s bare arms, pulling them behind Aramis’ back.  

The intense scene is interrupted when the video is paused.  Blinking, Porthos looks over at Athos for an explanation. 

“There,” Athos points at the screen.  “Richelieu turned back and looked.  He can’t argue he didn’t know about the abuse.  We’ve got him.”  He looks directly at Porthos with cold fire burning in his green eyes.  

It takes a long moment for Porthos to catch on.  He looks back at the screen.  Richelieu is indeed still in the room, looking back.  Aramis isn’t even hidden by either of the orderlies.  Athos is right.  Porthos was only seeing Aramis and would never have noticed.  

Suddenly, Porthos lunges for the desk phone.  He doesn’t care what time it is.  He lets it ring until Treville picks up.  “He watched,” he spits out as soon as Treville picks up.  “Richelieu is on the tape watching.”

“What?!” Treville shouts down the line, not sounding at all like a man who was asleep until a moment ago.  

“Richelieu hit Aramis and then he watches when those orderlies are raping him!” Porthos shouts, angry again.  “There’s no way he didn’t see what was going on!”

Treville is silent for a moment.  “Okay, tomorrow morning I want to see the footage.  And then I will schedule a meeting with him.”

“A meeting?!  We need to call the director now!  We need to call the police,” Porthos counters.  

“Don’t do anything,” Treville orders.  “Aramis won’t thank you for getting the police involved.”

The line disconnects and Porthos huffs and slams down the phone.  He focuses on Athos runs a hand through his scraggly hair as he finally pushes away from the desk.  “I heard him,” he confirms.  

Porthos petulantly falls back into a chair.  He’s meant to be the one in control.  He should be comforting the other man now, but he isn’t.  They’re just sitting around, the video the elephant in the room that neither wants to address or walk away from.  He wonders what Aramis is doing right now.  Is he sleeping, most likely drugged and freezing?  Or are they with him right now?

But there’s no point to sitting here wondering about it.  “We should go to bed,” Porthos murmurs and then follows words with actions and stands up.  

He prods Athos into standing up too, the smaller man leaning over to close the video. A hand to the shoulder pushes the other man out the door, but his touch soon falls away.  On separate beds, they sit and slip off their shoes then lie down in their clothes.  It feels as if they are a world away from each other, though lying in the twin beds they are nearly side by side.  Aramis is the affectionate, brave one.  Without him between them, they are both too miserable and proud to reach out to one another.  

He’s surprised that he manages to sleep at all.  In the morning, he takes a shower in the patient bathroom, but has to put on yesterday’s scrubs.  When he’s finished, Athos is awake, squinting in the light like a baby bird peeking out of the nest.  Waiting, he sits on the bed while Athos gets ready in his usual jeans and zip-up hoodie.  

They’re at Treville’s office before seven when the doctor comes.  In silence, the two of them are ushered in the office and the door is closed soundly behind them.  Treville seems ready for there to be shouting.  

In fact, Treville seems to wait a moment for the two of them to speak first.  Only once he’s realized that they aren’t going to shout immediately does he move over to the desk.  “Now show me what you’ve found.”

It’s Athos who opens the video and fast forwards to the correct place before standing and moving out of the way.  Treville sits and the three of them watch in silence, Treville seeming very focused and Porthos unfocused and jittery.  It seems to take the doctor forever to say anything.  

“Let me call upstairs,” Treville says, not looking over at Porthos who visibly shakes in frustrated anger.  “Yes, this is Dr. Treville.  I need to see Dr. Richelieu today.  No, no, it has to be today.  Yes, that will be fine.  Thank you.”

Treville then huffs and rubs his face.  Athos rounds the desk to sit, but Porthos continues looming over his mentor.  Finally, Treville opens his mouth to explain.  

“I think it best if we don’t take this to the Board of Directors,” he starts, raising his hand when Porthos opens his mouth immediately to object.  “Hold on.  If we do, then they will have to investigate, possibly call the police.  Aramis will be interviewed and may be asked to press charges.  I think we all know how Aramis will react to that.  And once police are involved, then Aramis himself may be investigated for the rape claims.”

Treville lets that sink in for a moment, before going on.  “Also, they would immediately request the CCTV from this floor.  Every unorthodox decision will be put under scrutiny.  And can you really tell me that you haven’t engaged in less than professional behavior with him?”

“I don’t care about that!  He can fire me if that’s what it takes!” Porthos bursts out, finally proving Treville’s suspicions right.  

“I just think that the results would be better for everyone involved if we keep this between us and Dr. Richelieu.  I believe that this video will be enough to keep Richelieu to the rules.”

“You mean, blackmail,” Athos translates baldly.  

“Basically,” Treville states and then turns away to the files on the desk, effectively dismissing them.  

“Okay,” Porthos states, getting his mentor’s attention again, “But I want some other conditions, then.”

*******************

The rest of the day is spent arranging things before the meeting with Richelieu in the afternoon.  It keeps them busy enough that Porthos doesn’t obsess over every minute that Aramis stays in that horrid place.  

Athos doesn’t come with them to the meeting.  And Porthos is relegated to stand in a corner, having promised to keep his mouth shut.  Richelieu obviously suspects nothing as he welcomes them into his office, seeming as smug as ever.  Treville has brought the file on his iPad.  Silently, he starts the video to play and then props it on the desk facing the other doctor.  

“Save your breath denying what’s going on in this ward,” Treville says, in his deep voice.  “You not only struck a patient, you clearly saw your orderlies sexually abuse a patient in your care.”

Richelieu looks shocked, but he seems to recollect himself.  “That man is hardly unwilling,” he starts, but changes his tone when Treville’s expression hardens.  “There’s a reason that you haven’t taken this to the Director.  Out with it.”

“You are going to release Aramis,” Treville starts.  “And from now on, you are going to strictly keep to the 48 hours commitment guidelines.  And, in return, we will not take this video to the director or to the police.”

“You have as much to lose as I,” Richelieu accuses.  

“I think I’m more willing to accept those consequences than you, though,” Treville counters.  

Richelieu scowls, knowing that he’s beaten.  “So you’re going to hold this over my head forever?”

It’s not really a question but Porthos smiles and interjects, “That’s the idea.”

As soon as the meeting is over, Porthos runs down the hall, a blanket he clutched to his chest.  He finds Aramis unsurprisingly unconscious, sprawled naked on a hospital gurney without a single covering.  The man looks terrible with bruises littering his skin and one distinct mark on his face from Richelieu’s blow.  Lying on a hospital gurney, he looks like the victim of a car crash or some other accident.  The blanket hides the evidence of grasping hands, and Porthos tucks it around the lean limbs compulsively.  Treville is waiting in the elevator when he rolls the gurney out.  

“We’ll keep him downstairs until he wakes up,” Treville says.  

They separate once out of the elevator, but Treville reappears with a doctor and supplies once Porthos has the patient settled in a room.  There wasn’t  time to get a good look earlier, but it’s clear that Aramis has not been taken care of.  He’s clearly dehydrated and underfed, on top of being unwashed and greasy.  For a man that takes two showers a day, that’s adding insult to injury.  

There’s little to be done after an IV is started.  It’s just a waiting game again.  He’s glad that Athos, at least, has something to occupy him.  Hopefully, everything will be ready when Aramis wakes up.  He’s practically asleep himself when Aramis moves for the first time in hours, simply turning his head at first.  But it seems that Aramis is determined to wake up from sheer force of will.  One toss of his head becomes another and then he’s trying to push himself up on his elbows before he’s even opened his eyes.  Porthos leans forward, reaching out to the other man, but Aramis has yanked out the IV before Porthos can do more than that.   

“What are you…?” Porthos begins, but Aramis is already rolling out of the bed clumsily.   

“I’m leaving,” Aramis mumbles, still sounding drugged.  He manages to push off the bed to standing, though his chin rests practically on his chest.  “I’m…”

Porthos wraps his hands around the too small waist to steady the man.  “Okay, okay.  But it might help if you put some clothes on.”

Aramis struggles for a moment, either not able to understand Porthos’ words or unwilling to believe.  But he tires quickly.  Porthos didn’t bring Aramis’ own clothes, the tight apparel too difficult to get into.  He pulls soft sweatpants up over Aramis’ long legs and zips up a soft hoodie on him.  Aramis won’t sit to put on his shoes so the big nurse kneels and lets the unsteady man grip onto his shoulders while the shoes are slipped on.  

Numbly, Aramis shuffles after Porthos down the hallways and out to the garage.  Porthos leads him, opens the car door and fastens the man’s seatbelt.  Aramis falls asleep on the drive, but awakens in a panic of sudden realization.  “Where are we...I don’t-don’t have a place right now.  Hotel.  Take me to a hotel, is fine.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Porthos tries to soothe.  “I’ve got someplace for you to go.  Someplace safe.”  He knows that Aramis can’t really comprehend what he’s saying right now, but he takes the moment to bear his soul anyway.  “I know that you can’t trust me on that after all this, but I will always come for you.  I’ll never abandon you.”

Aramis’ only response is collapsing once again into the passenger seat.  Porthos takes the time to call Athos and let him know that they’re on their way.  The other man sounds calmer, less strained now that he’s out of the hospital.  Hopefully, it will work on Aramis too.  The man stays nearly unconscious as Porthos helps him into the house and into a freshly made bed.  Then he turns to Athos who has followed him into the room.  

“So how do you like the place?” Porthos asks.  

“A bit of a fixer upper,” Athos replies baldly.  But Porthos knows the man well enough to recognize amusement in the quirk of his lips.  

Porthos laughs.  “But it’s a great location,” he counters. 

Athos looks down at him again.  “It’s a rundown community too.”

“Yeah, but that’s the beauty of it,” Porthos says, moving to sit in the nearby easy chair.  “People to help in this neighborhood.  It’s the perfect place for a half-way house where the three of us can have a purpose, a mission.  It’s a place to heal even as we try to heal this community.”

Athos’ eyes are warm.  “If you say so,” he murmurs as he turns away.  He grabs a blanket and throws it to Porthos.  “I’ll make sure there’s something for him to eat when he wakes up.  I didn’t see him consume anything on that video.”

Porthos isn’t surprised.  But he is exhausted so he settles down in his chair to watch over their quarry.  

***************************

Aramis wakes up and feels like shit.  He’s unwashed, sore and thirsty, but he’s comfortably lying on a thick mattress.  Confused, he shifts position and his head explodes into pain, no doubt caused by dehydration.  But through the pain, he can feel soft clothes, warm blankets, and a pillow.  Knowing that he’s no longer in the secure ward of the hospital, he turns his head to see Porthos asleep in a nearby chair.  He vaguely remembers walking out of the hospital and riding in a car.  Wearily, he pushes himself up to standing.  He doesn’t really feel relieved, or grateful, or safe.  He doesn’t really feel anything.  

In his bare feet, he wanders through the mostly bare rooms of the shabby house, uncomprehending of why he’s here or where here is.  Mostly he doesn’t care.  He doubts that he’ll stay long.  He never seems to stay anywhere long.  Nothing lasts, particularly not love.  

Down a dark hallway is a kitchen that looks straight out of the fifties with its linoleum and plastic-looking cabinets.  And there Athos is, looking out a large window over the sink.  The sun is hitting the man’s pale skin and he’s smiling.  It’s a small smile on anyone else, but it is a pure contentment on that aristocratic face.  He didn’t think Athos could make such an expression.  

Like a dam breaking, emotions immediately rise in his throat to choke him.  Feeling suffocated, he hits the ground like a sack of potatoes and buries his face in his hands, his fast breaths loud in his ears.  He hears Athos rushing over to him and then feels the man’s long aristocratic hands on his back, his forearm, his hair.  The sound he lets out is soft and wavering.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as soon as he has breath for words.  “I’m sorry, I’m…” he has to stop to suck in a wet breath.  He doesn’t want to be jealous of Athos finally finding happiness.  He’s not, really.  But here Athos is, looking happy and at home and Aramis just feels like an empty husk, a used tissue.  He loves Athos, and Porthos, but how can they love him like he is?

He feels the large bulk of Porthos’ form envelop him from behind.  He’s not crying, though his breath is still shaky.  “I’m sorry,” he says, more comprehensible this time.  “I think I’m...I’m the fucked up one,” he laughs a bit.  Porthos laughs a bit too and presses his nose into Aramis’ temple.  

Athos slowly pulls Aramis’ hands away from his face so those green eyes can lock onto his own.  “I think we’re all a little fucked up,” Athos says in that serious way he has for everything.  

Aramis cracks a little smile, but shakes his head and looks away.  He knows that’s true but they don’t understand.  He hasn’t been honest, even with himself.  Athos presses a bottle of water into his hands and he manages a sip, but he still has things he has to say.  “I know that having sex with those guards was fucked up.  They just wanted to hurt me.”  He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing away the memory of feeling absolutely trapped at the mercy of other men.

Porthos’ arms tighten around him.  “Aramis…” Porthos starts.  

“Let me finish.  I know that other times, times before this, that was fucked up too,” Aramis forces himself to say it.  

“Aramis,” Porthos starts hesitantly.  “You know that some of those times, like when you were a kid, that was rape.  It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, yes, I said I know that,” Aramis talks over the words.  “But Father Bernard was nice to me.”  He needed someone to care about him then.  He still does.

But mostly he thinks mostly of everyone he’s loved and lost, like Helene and Anne and Adele.  He knew it was a mistake at the time, that people could get hurt, but he did it anyway  “But I hurt them.  Porthos, you’re a nurse.  I could have gotten you fired, and ruined your life.”

“Hey,” Porthos squeezes him to get his attention.  “Don’t worry about me.  It was my decision too.  And nothing is going to happen to me.”

Aramis looks away, down at his lap.  He knows that after...after that training mission that he was reckless.  He just couldn’t stand being left behind again, even by the dead.  He kept thinking of them, of leaving them in that forest.  The memories wouldn’t stop, the guilt and the remorse and the hurt.

So 

Athos dips his chin to get Aramis’ attention.  “You said no to them.  I saw you shake your head and say no.”

Aramis is confused, first that Athos knows what he did and then trying to remember if Athos is correct.  Aramis remembers vaguely.  “They were...I didn’t...I wanted you.  I’m sorry for disappointing you..”  He squeezes his eyes shut against the memories.  He knows,  _ he knows _ that those things they did were wrong, but he can’t change the past.  What is the point of focusing on the bad parts?

Athos suddenly looks fierce and he pulls on Aramis’ forearms until they are close together.  “I am not disappointed in you for what happened up there.”

Aramis starts to scoff because Athos always looks disappointed in him, but Athos shakes him abruptly.  “I am not disappointed in you.  I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.  I didn’t understand.”

It’s natural for Aramis to lean in then, wanting physical reassurance rather than just words.  He kisses the corner of Athos’s thin lips and then his cheek as he leans forward into an embrace, hands gripping the back of Athos’ shirt.  He wants to touch skin.  Needing more, he begins pulling up the material, his other hand diving underneath to feel the skin of Athos’ back.  

“You’re so beautiful when you smile,” he whispers against Athos’ stubbled neck.  “And the sun was on your face.  I want to see you naked in the sunlight.”

“Wait,” Athos murmurs, pulling away even as Aramis continues kisses at his neck.  “Aramis, don’t.”

Chastised, Aramis pulls away, but that just means he moves into Porthos’ waiting arms.  “Hey,” Porthos hot breath whispers past the shell of his ear as the big man speaks softly.  “We just don’t want you to feel pressured, after what those orderlies did to you.  Don’t do this to please us or reward us.”  Porthos pauses, pressing his face tightly into the curve of Aramis’ neck.  “Please.  I can’t hurt you.”

Aramis relaxes into the embrace.  That’s not why he wants to feel their skin against his own.  “I won’t.  I just want…”

“Reassurance,” Athos offers, his hands coming up again to stroke along Aramis’ arms.  

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, feeling more at peace with their hands on him.  “And comfort.”

Athos leans in, kissing his cheek and mouthing down to his jaw.  His next words are a whisper against Aramis’s skin.  “I don’t want to be a crutch, or a whip for your self-flagellation.”

Aramis giggles a bit as Porthos’ whiskers tickle behind his ear.  “What an idea,” he says, cheekily.  

His hands are already trying to pull off Athos’s shirt when he feels his hoodie being unzipped.  There’s skin pressed to his front and back, and he tilts his head back onto Porthos’ broad shoulder, arching to expose his throat.  His hips roll down into Porthos’ lap while his fingers are dipping beneath the waistband of Athos’ jeans.  He wants everything.  

“C’mon,” Porthos growls behind him, nipping at his throat, before he’s pushing them off his lap and pulling all three of them up to standing.  “I’m too old for the floor,” he says, laughing and spinning Aramis around for a kiss.    

It’s only a quick smooch and then Porthos tows them all to the bedroom where a large king bed waiting for them.  He’s distracted when Athos pulls on his hand, pulling him into another kiss.  Athos softly licks over his tongue while Porthos’ hands smooth down Aramis’ naked back and push down his sweatpants.  Big hands curve over the swell of his ass.  

Aramis rocks his ass back into the touch.  With a last nip to Athos’ bottom lip, he arches his spine and moans breathily.  “C’mon then.  You want to fuck me?  I want it hard,” he purrs.  

“Don’t,” Porthos says.  “Don’t put on the show you think I want.  I want the real you.”

Aramis spins in his arms and throws himself at the bigger man, wrapping his arms around Porthos’ neck.  Smiling, they fall back, tumbling to the bed.  Aramis shimmies down the bare chest immediately, kneeing open the other man’s legs so he can settle between.  Acutely, he’s aware of Athos’ eyes on him.  He’s not surprised that Athos would enjoy watching, and he makes certain to put on a show, lifting his hips to emphasize the curve of his back as he angles down, hands busily trying to open Porthos’ jeans. 

He’s surprised then when Athos suddenly pushes him over on his back.  “Don’t,” Athos orders as the long form lies down on his other side.  Only then does Aramis realize that Athos is naked, and Porthos is shimmying out of his own jeans.  

Athos gets his attention with a gentle hand to his bruised cheek.  Those green eyes are soft with sympathy at the wince he can’t stifle.  The kiss is slow and thorough as Porthos molds against his side, all naked skin now.  It’s Aramis who is overwhelmed.  Being touched by two determined sets of hands, he cannot keep up, cannot pleasure them both like he is being pleasured.  He bends his leg, opening himself.  Porthos resists the temptation, only stroking down his sensitive inner thigh. 

“Yes,” Aramis breathes.  He attempts to spread his legs wider and reaches down to cup himself, pulling up his balls to the base of his cock.  “Touch me.  I want it.”

He’s is still relaxed and open from earlier activity, but not slick.  Porthos doesn’t do anything but rub, creating friction and thumb only barely pressing in.  Muscles spasming, Aramis gasps, wanting more.  Athos kisses his lax mouth even as his hand begins to to jerk Aramis’s dick, hand only slick with the barest saliva.  It’s this side of too dry, but he won’t complain.  

“I didn’t think I could be happy again,” Athos confesses, breathlessly.  “I didn’t think that I could love again.  And then I met you.”

His green eyes flit from one handsome face to the other as Aramis simply stares in wonder.  When he saw Athos smile earlier in the kitchen, he didn’t imagine that it could be related to him.  He doesn’t think that he’s ever affected anyone as much.  Everyone he’s loved, he’s sure that he loved them more.  

Porthos is suddenly turning him over, lifting him up onto his knees with a strong arm around his waist.  He settles straddling Athos’s prone body.  The long-fingered hand anchors in his wild hair, cupping the back of his head as they kiss while Aramis hears Porthos rustle around in a bedside table.  Keeping his ass up and accessible, he kisses down Athos’ body, under a rosy nipple, the curve of a rib.  His intent is to take the hard cock he can feel against his chest into his mouth, but Athos stops him, pulling him up into another kiss.  

Aramis chuckles a little self-consciously into Athos’ mouth, but then he feels Porthos thick fingers now slick between his cheeks.  But it burns a bit when a single finger pushes inside.  He gasps and suddenly his head hurts, his throat is dry, his skin is cold.  He  _ hurts _ and he  _ needs _ .  But his face isn’t pressed into a chemically laden mattress.  He drops his head and his forehead meets warm skin.  He gasps again, taking in the warm musk of Athos’ clean body, banishing the memories from before.  He shudders out a surprised moan.  Porthos isn’t just digging his fingers in.  He’s sliding those digits past every bump that lights up Aramis’ nerves, the lube making the burn dissipate as he relaxes again.  

“Tell me to stop,” Porthos says, seriously.  “Are you sore?  Don’t do this just because you think I want it.”

“I want it,” Aramis says automatically.  But he looks up and sees Athos’s green eyes assessing him intently.  Gently, Athos sweeps a curl that’s hanging in his face away.  He wants them.  He wants this.   

Porthos slides into him so so carefully.  Aramis cants his hips back and leans down onto Athos’ chest, his mouth open as he pants.  Porthos is hitting that spot so his pleasure isn’t an act as he groans.  “Harder,” he chokes out.  Most guys just want to pound it out as quickly as possible.  

But Porthos doesn’t comply.  He drapes himself over Aramis’s back and continues his slow deliberate thrusts.  “There?” Porthos asks him, pressing him into the lean body under him.  “Is that your spot?”

Aramis lets out a groan that slowly becomes the word yes.  He’s surrounded with warmth and skin and please, with love.  Everything is perfect, though he isn’t capable of doing anything to reciprocate.  It doesn’t seem to matter as a long-fingered hand smooths his sweaty hair from his brow, an unexpectedly touch.  His hips start jerking as his thighs clench.  Belatedly, he reaches a hand down as he starts to come too soon.  

But his two lovers only pet and encourage him until he’s shuddered through the last aftershocks and collapsed.  And then Porthos pulls out.  

“No,” Aramis mumbles, basically drooling in Athos’ chest hair.  “No, keep fucking me.”  He wiggles his hips, but Porthos lies down alongside them. 

“No,” Porthos objects and preempts the next complaint with a kiss.  Aramis slides off his erstwhile human cushion, chasing Porthos’ tongue.  He can feel the rhythmic motions of the other man’s arm, jacking himself.    

Athos scoots close behind him and he can feel the head of Athos’ dick rub against his ass.  Reaching a hand back, he pulls the lean form tight against him.  He licks the cupid’s bow of Porthos’ full lips as he pulls away.  “Athos,” he moans, tilting his hips.  “Your turn.  I want to feel you.”

“No,” the answer is a rumble against his shoulder as Athos nips at his skin.  “Just this.  Just like this.”

Aramis groans in frustration.  He’s always a bit sensitive after an orgasm but their concern is ridiculous.  He’s never been denied, ever.  But Porthos seems to be intent on garnering his attention, thick fingers curling in his disgusting hair, pulling his face back up.  Aramis reaches down to press on the sensitive juncture of Porthos’ groin, curling his long fingers around his balls.  Porthos’ handsome face is pinched as he’s intent on reaching his goal.  

“God, look at you,” Aramis praises him.  “So strong,” he whispers, peppering kisses over the bristly face.  “So handsome.  God, how can anyone keep their hands off of you.  C’mon, I want to see.”

Aramis leans over, latching his mouth onto that perfect chest, nipples hard and tight and pushed forward with the flexing of Porthos’ muscles as he comes.  Flattening his tongue, Aramis laps over the brown nub as Porthos quakes under him.  He can feel Athos press harder into his back, can hear him making soft desperate sounds that cut off as teeth bite as Athos comes himself, hot cum splashing onto his skin.  

In the aftermath, Aramis is strangely aware of the new teeth marks on this shoulder.  He knows it will bruise, another bruise to mar his skin.  Porthos is panting against his forehead, holding him close, but he’s focused on the dark bruises around his wrists.  All the colors of the bruise spectrum painted around his skin, darker purples on top of the older yellows.  He stares at his hand resting on Porthos’ dark skin.  Such a strong man, but Porthos was nothing but gentle.  Unbidden, Aramis thinks to his time back in the secure ward.  Those guards used sex to hurt him for their own bruised egos and broken noses.  And even when they squeezed his wrists and shoved him into the mattress hard enough to suffocate him, Aramis whined and pushed back for more, for harder.  What is wrong with him?

He blinks and comes back to himself to find Porthos’ hands on his cheeks, dark eyes peering into his face.  He must’ve not been paying attention.  

“There you are,” Porthos murmurs and smiles a bit.  He looks down at Aramis’ bruised forearm braced on his chest and starts chafing the skin as if to warm him.  “What are you thinking about?”

The smile feels fake and cracking on Aramis’ face, but he tries.  He can see that Porthos already feels guilty and miserable and he’s not one to kick a man who’s already down.  “Thinking about a shower,” he answers instead.  

“Give it a minute,” Athos murmurs before kissing his neck.  The bed shakes as Athos then gets up.  He doesn’t offer an explanation of where he’s going.  

“So what is this place?” Aramis asks.  It has suddenly occurred to him to ask.  “This isn’t the apartment you described.”

Porthos takes a deep breath and pulls Aramis closer, resting his chin on Aramis’ head.  He imagines that the big man is happy enough for the distraction.  “No, this was meant to be a half-way house for patients, but Treville never got authorization for it.”

“So what are we doing here?” Aramis queries, his cheek against the muscular chest.  

“We’re recovering.  I thought we’d stay here, fix up the place, and volunteer in the neighborhood,” Porthos explains matter-of-factly.  

“For how long?” Aramis asks, feeling a cold pit open up inside his chest.  “How long does this rehabilitation take?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Porthos stumbles.  “I thought…”

Atho re-enters the room, interrupting them, “We’ve been discharged from care,” he says bluntly, and then hands over the water bottle from earlier.  “You don’t have to stay here, with us.  But we want you to.”

Slowly, Aramis sits up and takes the bottle.  He’s still dehydrated, but downing it is also a distraction from having to answer right away.  Do they really want him or are they just worried about him?  Will this just be a temporary situation to work off their guilt?

“Hey,” Porthos sits up and wraps around him again.  “I want you to stay.  I want this to work out.  I’ve been afraid to fall in love.  But you are impossible to resist,” he whispers.  

“Of course, I am,” Aramis teases, voice thick with emotion.  “It’s not my fault that I look this good.”

Porthos squeezes him again like he’s a little child.  He feels almost like a small child now, but now, just like then, he’s pretty good at stuffing those emotions away.  He finishes the bottle of water and kisses Porthos’ cheek before standing.  “Well, then I hope that you brought my things.”

He can see Athos’ eyes move over his naked body and he twists to flex his abs.  But Athos’ eyes land more on his many bruises than his Apollo’s belt. He wonders how long it will take for the pity to fade from their eyes.  Then again, maybe it’s better that they know all of his dirty secrets upfront, rather than abandon him at the first sign of trouble.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says, breaking the moment. 

Porthos stands and runs his hands from Aramis’ ass to his shoulders in appreciation.  He kisses the flattened curls on the side of Aramis’ head soundly.  “I’m not sure our water heater is big enough for you,” Porthos teases, “much less the two of us as well.” 

Aramis freezes, feeling suddenly exposed.  Standing there wearing nothing but bruises, he feels like he can’t just laugh it off as usual.  

“Aramis,” Porthos prompts.  “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” he starts.  “I don’t mean to.  It’s gotten kind of out of hand…”

Porthos interrupts his rambling with a hand on his chest.  “Hey, don’t apologize.  If you need to take ten showers, that’s fine with me.”

Aramis nods, thankful but still fearful of their reaction.  “I thought the Army had cured me of the habit,” he huffs a facsimile of a laugh.  “Just, after I was discharged…”  He trails off rather than mention the failed training exercise that he knows is on all of their minds, but he sees a dark look settle on Porthos’ face.  “It’s kind of a ritual, from when I was a kid,” he looks off to the side, remembering his mother and choking down all of the grief and regret and hurt with the ease of long practice.  “My mother...after the men left, she’d want to shower.  She wanted to hold me and take care of me.”  Though she never let him see her cry, he just wanted to make her happy again, wanted to protect her.  “After I...left, I kept it up.  Self-comfort, I guess.”  He’d come home after sex with the priest and take a shower, missing his mother and his family, and let the tears wash down the drain.  And when he came out, it was time to stop crying and carry on.  And that’s what he will do now.  

Athos nods at him, less affectionate but no less loving.  “I have some broth on the stove for you when you get out.”  It’s practically a declaration of undying love from him, Aramis knows.  

Aramis smiles and it feels natural again.

***********ENDING********

There are great times and bad times.  Days when they chase each other around the house, sparring with paintbrushes.  And days where Aramis sits with Athos at a bar during a relapse.  There are nights when Aramis comes home late and mussed, crying and confessing,expecting to be kicked out.  But they make a great team.  They do more for that neighborhood than any of them thought possible.  And one day, they meet a young man named d’Artagnan, and a woman married too young.  But that’s another story.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got several more fic ideas from the kinkmeme. The one that I'm most excited about is also giving me the most trouble right now. What do y'all think?
> 
> Prompt: "What if Aramis had been hit a little harder in Savoy? What if he suffered permanent damage?" d'Artagnan is not sure what to think about the strange man, at first. Why do the Musketeers keep on such a damaged soldier? How do Athos and Porthos handle having to deal with the man all the time? But through a series of (mis)adventures, he learns that friendship is more than meets the eye.


End file.
